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All that grows in the skulls of the living are flowers of fear

Examinemos de perto um fascista bolsolavista. Ele é um homem branco de meia idade, cheio de tensão, embora consiga escondê-la, de cabelos curtos, que frequenta a igreja (se bem que uma boa pecha de "metaleiros" e motoqueiros estejam na esteira) tráz no para-brisa do carro ou na caixinha de plástico da moto adesivos da lava-jato, sul é meu país, bandeirinha com as cores da Casa de Bragança e olha com hostilidade os anarquistas, os comunistas, e as feministas. Tem tido em sua vida pouco amor, leitura e contato com a natureza. É dominado pelo medo, cheio de preconceitos e bebe muito. É um homem passivamente zangado, invejoso, amargo, odiento. Devasta o meio em que vive. Fugiu durante toda a sua vida da consciência e da responsabilidade. Um patriota que apenas decorou o Hino Nacional e o de seu clube de estimação. A única mudança em sua vida foi migrar da televisão para as redes sociais. Domesticado até à medula sua noção é obedecer. Está programado.

Dom Sathanas

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