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He wakes up. Love is complicated and painful and full of apologies and distrust and like a recovering addict he sits shaking in the corner trying to get over the last low quality batch that he injected. He will not do that again he promises himself he will not make that mistake love is not necessary it is not pleasant he has had no good experiences with it it has brought him not happiness no joy only bad poetry and disaster. Egypt collapses in horrible violence and the West looks on as if it has no complicity in any of these things as if everything isn’t interconnected in a fine webbed matrix that goes back to a refused IMF loan earlier in the year because the design of the loan would have reduced even more fuel and food subsidies. There are no goodies and there are no baddies there are just human beings murdering one another and distant patricians looking on with false empathy shaking their heads because in their heads they think they did what they could but those poor Egyptians just weren’t ready for democracy – the democracy of the bovine, the docile, the crushed. Then he drinks some wine and he goes to sleep.

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