A creative gasp resounds

In a world as limp as a rag doll, a world of flowers and fug, lax and lackadaisical and dreamy and docile, the words "revoke!" "rescind!" would seem to have no place. The "official" seems so far from the mildly disorganized social and cultural schedule, a schedule adapted for picking low-hanging and delicious ripe fruit. Until you learn to see below the surface. 

Deep subservience colors each day for people whose only prod and only proof is that subservience. More like snakes than cattle these herded hordes wait for their orders. Obey is not a word. It is the only way. 

Scratch the surface of an accomplished architect or a graceful poetess and you will see the iron attachment to Authority. As they bark orders in their turn you can hear the tune of fear that shakes their loins. No air in or out. No wiggle space. "Order!" they scream. 

They experienced war and terror and crime and violence and random evil all their lives. No wealth or family status protected them. But it was war, a war they wrote themselves with the bloody ink of Devotion, a war their people promulgated and nurtured and seek to remake and rewrite. Their devotion to a Peaceable Lord taught them not peace but devotion. 

Flowers, masses of flowers, truckloads of flowers and volumes of incense smoke are the product of minds that focus on the steely vision of blood, duty, belonging. That the sweet smiles of their pink mouths morph into lips and teeth that bark orders comes as no surprise. You only need to stay among them long enough. Forms encyclopedic and detailed, small and large gods of plastic. All vulnerable to the elements so shore them up with lies. Your dissent may jeapordize the whole endeavor. Can that be allowed? It must be disallowed at any expense. 

The waggle, "suit yourself" is capable of murder, decapitation, immolation of the "other," whose energy and focus are intolerable. A creative gasp resounds as furious bloody paws of the lion take it down to the pavement.