Please visit http://phd.aydeethegreat.com for better quality audio download of this dissertation project.

Owning My Masters: The Rhetorics of Rhymes and Revolutions

This collection is inspired by both “Django Unchained” [Preme’s ‘The D is Silent’ beat flip project provided many of the original instrumentals] and “12 Years a Slave.” Some time ago I enrolled in ‘Introduction to the Modern World’ and ‘American Science Fiction’ at Millikin University in Decatur, IL. I can easily say this was the day that I started my journey to freedom. My intent isn’t to trivialize slavery by comparing my story to those who were stolen from homes and sold into forced servitude, made to labor in insufferable conditions day and night for the benefit of their masters. I make allusion to my journey to freedom as a path from the unknown unknowing of the unknown to an understanding of things not seen and a desire for some understanding of the unknowns that are and are not. I remember writing, that year, “They say that ignorance is bliss, and power corrupts,/ time is money; what happens when your hour is up?” My question: If not knowing that you don’t know that you don’t know is bliss, and knowledge, as they say, is power, and that power translates into money [or riches, in the traditional sense], then how much time does one need to be[come] empowered? Even more, is being empowered any better than “bliss”? The mere asking of the question takes the questioner out of the realm of possibly knowing the answer. The truly ignorant never bother to wonder. 

From that point forward I have been left to answer the remaining query: What happens when [my] hour is up? At some point between twelve years ago and now I read and memorized the poem, “If” by Rudyard Kipling, and have kept the last stanza close to heart. 

“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, 
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 
If all men count with you, but none too much; 
If you can fill the unforgiving minute 
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, 
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, 
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!” 

The final quatrain, particularly, is resonant, regarding my question of time. To “fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run” is about the best that I could come up with in response to a question of my own mortality on the quest to empowerment, my quest toward freedom. I would waste no more time blustering with bliss. 

So recently, years after that pivotal moment I enrolled in those two courses, I found myself moving from Illinois to South Carolina in pursuit of more. This move is what inspires this collection. As I left the Land of Lincoln I had no clue I was moving to within a half mile of John Calhoun’s Fort Hill Plantation. In tow, I had my bookmarked copy of "Malcolm X: A Life of Reinvention," and within a week I’d receive Amir “Questlove” Thompson’s "Mo’ Meta Blues" as a birthday gift. These were as much a part of my introduction to The South as Bojangles’ Chicken ‘n Biscuits, Cheerwine, “Football Jesus” and roadside billboards advertising moonshine. At the time I was settling in to my new environment the country was awaiting a verdict in the George Zimmerman trial, which seemed to be presented as a posthumous trial of Trayvon Martin as much as it was of the defendant. He was found not guilty, and I started writing notes for what’s collected here. Additionally, I found myself in the audiences at two remarkable movies in those early months: "Fruitvale Station" and "12 Years a Slave." Both have remained with me, and have undoubtedly been a great influence on my perspective while navigating this new terrain, but "12 Years a Slave" has been particularly resonant because of Solomon Northup’s personal journey, leaving his home, presumably to join a band of entertainers [he was a musician. “Curious,” some would say his talent was.]. Under the auspices of fellowship and financial gain, his hosts drugged him, and when he woke he found himself sold into slavery. His is a startling tale, to say the very least, of the brutality and inhumanity endured by him, his brethren and his sisteren. I have been responding to my thoughts on both films all semester. 

As RCID 8010 ["Histories of Rhetorics"] began, and I experienced this place, my personal readings and films I watched along with the required readings for the course, I continued responding to the world and the words. Those responses are contained here. 


Term One: A Mixtape

[“‘In the Circuit Court of the 18th Judicial Circuit in and for Seminole County, Florida; State of Florida versus George Zimmerman, the verdict—we the jury find George Zimmerman not guilty. So say we all. –Foreperson’”]

[1]
Shout out to the courts and the legislation
that make assassination fair practice. No hesitation
or waiting for I.D. 
So, patiently, I be
taking target practice, my pistol laying beside me. 
If you’re wondering why we
are angry. I’m sorry— 
I can’t make you, and you don’t wanna know—prob’ly
your mind’s closed. Your blinder’s up. 
I’m thinking time is up, and you got ‘til this rhyme is up
to ponder where your mind is ‘cause
I feel it coming on. The streets getting warm. 
If the world is this cold I can see there’s a storm
on the horizon, and you might be less than ready for rain.
If a man’s giving you *hell*, and you’re living through pain
you ain’t got much to explain when you up and react.
It’s the pressure that makes pipes burst. Nothing but facts, 
nothing but raps here, nothing but acts fear provoke.
2013 ‘Strange Fruit’, minus the rope.

[2 (DJ Animosity)]
Verdict came out, and I’m sick of this bullshit.
Wanna let ‘em know I’m the wrong one to fuck with.
Tired of being a target—I’m not gon’ be a victim.
Keep your judge, your court and your system.
Not gon’ depend on having a witness.
Vigilantes want some; come on and get this.
Educated and armed, so that makes me dangerous. 
Not gonna be followed by some punk-ass stranger. 
Takin’ ‘im out like an Army Ranger.
Hear my words. I testify—you feel my anger.

[Mark O’Mara: Well, I think that things would have been different if George Zimmerman was black for this reason: he never would have been charged with a crime.]

[3]
Y’all must wanna start a revolution. 
Niggas looking for a good reason to start lootin’.
They been shooting in Chi-raq. 
We ain’t gon’ deny facts. 
Fuck a gun buy back;
they out here boosting gun racks.

Wanna reason to fear black males? Give us an inkling 
of the feeling it’s open season
on us, and we won’t be breathing
unless we protect our Freedom,
our Life and our Liberty, in Pursuit of Happiness. 
I can tell you what happens next: 
I’m thinking of Malcolm X—ain’t looking to turn a cheek.

Somewhere in America, looking to target me,
is a man thinking ‘Birth of a Nation’ without a sheet,
who feels his grounds need stood, and probably,
since I ain’t his property,
won’t properly pardon me,
but feels like I’m harboring
some aggression, and ought to be
more respectful in honoring
that I’m here, so he wants to teach me a lesson,
except I know what I know—and it’s just this:

These fists, these feet, this brain, and this heart
can’t be dismissed without laying a few scars.

So Somewhere in America They’re fearing
‘cause it’s scarier that Right Here in America We’re ready.

[Malcolm X: “I do believe that the black man in the United States…is well within his right to do whatever is necessary, by any means necessary, to protect his life and property, especially in a country where the federal government itself has proven it is either unable or unwilling to protect the lives and property of those human beings.”]


Right Here In America [feat. DJ Animosity]

Intro [Yes, yes.

And so the journey begins.

You know how it feels, 
and I’m pretty sure you understand, too…

Yeah…

Ha!

Good looking out, Truth!

I finally made my move, 
and I figured I’d give you an update
on where I’m at right now.]

[MALCOLM X (as portrayed by Denzel Washington): 
“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]


[1]
They say History is written by the victors,
so when you see my picture
in the book it’ll be consistent with my memory, 
my victories, my tendencies that tempered me and wintered me.
Cold, like those Chi City winds, ‘cause they’re blistering.

It’s in my DNA.
It’s in my bloodline.
What I do is much deeper than a punchline.

Where I’m from crime
is the norm.
Bullets hail—we stay calm amidst the storm.

I say ‘we’ because
when I say ‘me’ it’s us.
When I say ‘you’ it’s me, too, and vice versa.
It’s not much that needs to be proven in nice verses.
Write cursive—scribble out—print it like I meant it.
My people *closed* minded—
wear it if you fit it.
Rarely niggas get it. If they did it would be critically acclaimed.

But still the same A. Dot.
Still focused on my vision at a rate they not.

[Hook]
Still hoping for some healing from this place I got to,
and knowing niggas feel it when I say ‘I got you.’

is enough to keep me cool for the moment. 
School in the mornings,
teach in the evenings and be decent. 

No time to sleep in;
just create these
statements like a dissertation for a PhD

[“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]

[2]
So, I finally made my move to the South, and as I’m moving about
I get a better understanding what my roots is about,
because my people from here, and though I can’t see ‘em from here
they’re reflected in my expressions
so you’re hearing ‘em clear.

They ask me, “Why would you leave?”
I ask ‘em, “How could I stay
and be limited on the shit I have the power to say?”

I’m thinking years in the future.
They’re thinking now and today,
like getting showered with flowers, 
not in the aisle at your grave.

It’s hard to make it make sense.
My momma proud as can be, 
but says, “I thought you left before to get a college degree?”
And as I tell her, “I did, but I’m going back in the summer.”
it kind of makes me wonder what the fuck I’ll do with another.

It’s nothing more than a question—rhetorical one, at that.
I mean, the fact is all of this shit started off with a rap.
And if I’m still doing that
I think I’m doing okay.
If it ain’t complimentary, then you ain’t got shit to say [to me].

[Hook]
Still hoping for some healing from this place I got to,
and knowing niggas feel it when I say ‘I got you.’

is enough to keep me cool for the moment. 
School in the mornings,
teach in the evenings and be decent. 

No time to sleep in;
just create these
statements like a dissertation for a PhD

[“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]

[3]
Because you read it in a book,
thought that it was true;
saw it on the television—thought that it was you.
Self-fulfilling politics get taught to you at school.
Brolic ‘cause you brought with it a positively rude
mind state. I keep mine like a blind date:

I can be objective, 
I can be accepting, 
but I’d rather be selective.
If I’m not respected I’m the wrong nigga to f’ with.
If you saw my checklist
you knew this was next. It’s 
not a matter of simply rapping.
I really happen to have a strategy being enacted.

If you know, you know I ain’t afraid of spittin’
what I know is true ‘cause I’m south of the Mason-Dixon.
If I know the Truth it’s my duty to make revisions;
showing my peoples’ beauty and skewing what They envision.

I make my living off the things that I think.
Therefore, I am. 
I’ll give that a minute to sink [in].

[Hook]
Still hoping for some healing from this place I got to,
and knowing niggas feel it when I say ‘I got you.’

is enough to keep me cool for the moment. 
School in the mornings,
teach in the evenings and be decent. 

No time to sleep in;
just create these
statements like a dissertation for a PhD

[“What would you call an educated Negro with a BA, or an MA, or a BS or a PhD?
I’ll tell you. You call him a Nigger! That’s what.”]

Dissertation [Part 1: The Introduction] Prod By Truth

[Huey P. Newton: “One of my principles is that contradiction is a ruling principle of the universe, and everything—and phenomena, whether it’s the physical world, or the biologic world, or the social world, has its internal contradiction that gives motion to things—that internal strain. And much of the time that we homo sapiens don’t realize that no matter what sort of conditions we establish, no matter what government we establish, at this point, there also will be that internal contradiction that will have to be resolved, and resolved in a rational, just way. And, of course that leads us to somewhat—it’s very vague on how to deal with it. And many times we claim actions are revolutionary, when really they’re not.”]

[1]
They want rap, not a tap dance minstrel show
so they can’t help but wanna follow where my pencil go. 
I’m like the ghost of Wu Tang’s Bobby Digital’s analog catalog
trapped inside your stereo.

Not mercurial, but open to change.
Came during the drought when you was hoping for rain,
praying to HOV. I was opening lanes
on the right side, solo, joking and playing. It’s like

‘Beat Street’ meets Oscar The Grouch—
traditions that used to exist, got argued about
and took over—consumerism hollowed ‘em out.
Now everybody’s scratching heads, like “What’s the problem about?”

If you can’t see the boogey man but you spooked,
and you can tell a lot about a tree from the roots,
then it don’t really matter what you do to the fruit,
‘cause you ain’t eatin’ what you thinkin’ is like venom to you.

I represent niggas that been in the booth—
spittin’ truth, so our peers call us venerable. 
Ladies get disrespected, and dinners are few, 
so they all *bear a tone* like a *ten or a two,*

but be careful who you mention it to, 
‘cause I got sisters, a mother, and living is proof
that they’re queens, no borough, and itching to prove 
that I’ll put you Down Under like a didgeridoo.

Murder metaphor, red caped matador.
Niggas kill niggas every day, why battle for a title,
‘cause if you look like me, you’re my rival, 
but mix it with some ignorance, and you can be my idol.

I’m ‘bout to remix 'America the Beautiful'
to ‘The Takeover’ beat, I’m sure it’ll be suitable, 
write three rhymes, solidify me undisputable, 
start a revolution, have ‘em play it at my funeral,

and print my name on they t-shirts, black, solid with
prophecies spoken by Socrates with politics 
that’s paradoxical—on a beach somewhere tropical
sippin’ daiquiris with Tupac, Scott LaRock and Obama. 
*Solemn*—alaikum is the statement. 
Peace to the people, pray you never be complacent, 
and never strive for parallel if you were born adjacent.  
Simple statement:  I’m saying always strive for greatness. 

Yes, yes.

[Reporter: “Are you not, perhaps, afraid of what might happen to you as a result of making these revelations?”

[Malcolm X: “Oh, yes. I probably am a dead man already.”

“No. I don’t worry. I tell you, I’m a man who believed that I died twenty years ago. And I live like a man who is dead already. I have no fear whatsoever of anybody or anything.”]

Internal Contradiction [The Showdown] Prod By Preme

"[1]
They want what’s similar to what’s been on the radio.
Say it’s no big deal, but if I’m for real, it is, but pay me no
credit, cash, debit, slash, let it pass, with no assist.
No resistance, know a listener can tell the difference.
I really wish I gave a fuck about what other people do. 
I really don’t, but want you to feel like I wrote this song for you. 

But it was writer’s block that prompted it, and me, who wanted it.
My promise is my narcissistic nature won’t be charmed by which-
ever one’s opinionated statements about how I made it.
I’m elated if you hate it. I’m complacent if you love it.
I put myself way above it—see it like an ant farm.
Can’t harm what you can’t touch. And I’ll give it up
before I let it be perverted, you heard it from me directly.
It’s silly if I ask you to, but I don’t respect me. 

Let me make myself real clear here—you niggas coonin’ and buffoonin’ 
and doing more damage to you than who you 
think is your enemy. Foolish, to think that men’ll see you
and then emulate your example. You see it clear like a sample. 
The opportunity’s ample, so you don’t put up a fight. 
Just sell what’s already there, ‘cause it’s your copy to write.
Rite of passage is the massive misinformation you faced and made believe 
you understood—that was the ace up your sleeve. 
So you sat down at the table to play. They made it look fun. 
You thought you had the high card, they told you you were the one.
And you were. 

Sometimes you play a game and win, but despite
your winning at it, somehow you find something missing in life.
Like for me? I’ll take the L before I take a few dollars
if I gotta endorse a product that I know to be harmful. 
Where’s the honor in a nigga being a nigga for sell?
May as well put on your heavy chain and work in the fields. 
How do you make a slave stay a slave? Tell him he can make a slave, 
and make some money while he’s at. It’s simple and tragic.

[2]
If Willie Lynch was just a myth but his invention still persisted
would it matter if we saw ourselves as chattel and we battled one another?
I was raised to hate my brother, so I hate him, 
and I hate the woman who created him. And maybe from
a certain angle,  if you strain to see the truth, then you could see
that what it really is I’m dealing with has more to do with me, 
but I’m afraid of truth, and hate that you remind me who I am, 
and that’s related to the way I grew up trying to understand
how I could make it through this place and do what I was meant to, and
face the fact that I was snatched from home and brought to tend the land.
‘Cause that’s the complicated kind of truth America the Beautiful
would hate to help me deal with, plus I feel it’s kind of mutually
beneficial if I’m killin’ niggas and she want ‘em dead
as much as she wants me to go away. A bounty’s on my head.

So they can ask for gun control and more restrictions, 
they can’t satiate the hunger that she has for hanging niggas.
I’m a proxy and a peon; a patsy taking orders; 
Apache scout attacking scalps and trying to save my borders;
a hoarder on a hunt for blood, I’m crippled by the thirst, 
so I’m riffin' over turf and bitches bitchin’ it gets worse
because my women wanna curse a cursed nigga. I am first 
A man who ain’t a man, but kind of mannish so it hurts
to think about it, be surrounded by it, even be convicted; 
to see it and believe it, talk about it and bear witness.
 
Fuck til death do us part, wellness or in sickness. 
I wanna see your thickness—twerk something—be my mistress, 
be my bitch. I’ll treat you like the bitch you is, and we’ll be living. 
Then we can have some children…and you could raise them brilliant…
or you could raise them feeling how I feel about us all…
the strangest kind of fruit to ever fall…

You could raise them how I feel about us all…
the strangest kind of fruit to ever fall."







Willie Revisited [Prod. by Preme]

Somebody in the crowd yells, 
“Impeach the DJ!” 
and almost on cue 
he places the needle tip down on the record
and the break-beat begins, 
“Ladies & Gentlemen…” 
immediately following a 
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…

At that exact moment 
I know that we can have our own political party—
That we need 
our own political party.
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”

Right next to the DJ booth is the voting booth, 
so right after you vote 
you can request your favorite song…
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
but you have to be registered 
to vote, 
which means you have to be registered 
to make any other requests…

“Ladies & Gentlemen…”

And the dress code is ‘Sunday’s Best’
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
and after you request your favorite song, 
you can elect to not be enslaved by the legislation, 
which the DJ will read over the beat…
boom…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…Please pay attention to the hook…
boom-bap…Please pay attention…boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…

Then, he slaps the crossfader, and says, 
“This is a paid advertisement from your sponsors…”
slap—boom-boom-boom—slap
“Hennessey Very Special Cognac & The Jordan Sneaker Company…”
slap—boom-boom-boom—slap
“You’re encouraged to vote with your wallets…”
slap—boom-boom-boom…bap, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”
…bap…boom-boom-boom…bap…

And the people are in a trance, dancing, drinking and carrying on. 

The line at the DJ booth is bustlin’
because the hustlers want to hear Hustler Music,
and somebody wants You’re Only A Customer.
So the DJ says, “I do customized mix tapes for almost pennies a song.”
Then, Biggie’s Dead Wrong is mixed in, 
and just when you think it can’t get any liver
the crowd almost rises in unison, 
and I’m thinking dude can spin whatever record he wants and have them
moving to it, 
so I’m pretty sure he could lead our political party 
with slide dances 
and chants of “Do my ladies run this muthafucka?”

Now, “Do my fellas run this muthafucka?”

“I said the roof…the roof…the roof is on fire.  
We don’t need no water…”


And before last call, everybody who wants their voice heard 
has their song played, 
unless the DJ decides it would interrupt the mix, 
in which case you get a mix tape at a considerable discount…
and your song goes to the top of the list next time around…

“No guarantees,” 
the DJ says as the lights come up, 
“We don’t want to ruin a good time.”

And the people leave, satisfied. 

And the DJ goes to the back room to collect his check. 

The club owner smiles, 
tosses him cash, and they have a good laugh

about Politics As Usual.

Impeach The President

"Performed by The 2nd Carolina String Band/Loius Farrakhan. 

According to Wikipedia, ""Dixie", also known as "I Wish I Was in Dixie", "Dixie's Land", and other titles, is a popular American song. It is one of the most distinctively American musical products of the 19th century, and probably the best-known song to have come out of blackface minstrelsy. Although not a folk song at its creation, "Dixie" has since entered the American folk vernacular. The song likely cemented the word "Dixie" in the American vocabulary as a synonym for the Southern United States.

Most sources credit Ohio-born Daniel Decatur Emmett with the song's composition; however many other people have claimed to have composed "Dixie", even during Emmett's lifetime. Compounding the problem of definitively establishing the song's authorship are Emmett's own confused accounts of its writing, and his tardiness in registering the song's copyright. The latest challenge has come on behalf of the Snowden Family of Knox County, Ohio, who may have collaborated with Emmett to write "Dixie".

The song originated in the blackface minstrel shows of the 1850s and quickly grew famous across the United States. Its lyrics, written in a comic, exaggerated version of African American Vernacular English, tell the story of a freed black slave pining for the plantation of his birth. During the American Civil War, "Dixie" was adopted as a de facto anthem of the Confederacy. New versions appeared at this time that more explicitly tied the song to the events of the Civil War. Since the advent of the North American Civil Rights Movement, many have identified the lyrics of the song with the iconography and ideology of the Old South. Today, "Dixie" is sometimes considered offensive, and its critics link the act of singing it to sympathy for the concept of slavery in the American South. Its supporters, on the other hand, view it as a legitimate aspect of Southern culture and heritage and the campaigns against it as political correctness. The song was a favorite of President Abraham Lincoln: he had it played at some of his political rallies and at the announcement of General Robert E. Lee's surrender."

Louis Farrakhan, according to Wikipedia, "is the leader of the syncretic and mainly African-American religious movement the Nation of Islam (NOI). He served as the minister of major mosques in Boston and Harlem, and was appointed by the longtime NOI leader, Elijah Muhammad, as the National Representative of the Nation of Islam. After Warith Deen Muhammad disbanded the NOI and started the orthodox Islamic group American Society of Muslims, Farrakhan started rebuilding the NOI. In 1981 he revived the name Nation of Islam for his organization, previously known as Final Call, regaining many of the Nation of Islam's National properties including the NOI National Headquarters Mosque Maryam, reopening over 130 NOI mosques in America and the world. The Southern Poverty Law Center describes Farrakhan as antisemitic and anti-white. Farrakhan himself, however, disputes this view of his ideology."

Intro [I'm Doing The Talking]

When they ask for it, never tell ‘em no. Let it go, 
put a pen to the pad—it’s an effervescent flow.
Definitely know—I’m a product of the era I was brought up in—
competition slaughtering for fun.
Might’ve mentioned guns as a shorty for attention.
Not to say they wasn’t in my area, but listen, 
my competition, they never wanted me dead, 
they wanted decapitation, they saw that I was ahead, 
heard that I told tales, knew that I did it well
Sisyphusean descriptions—I live in my own Hell.

It’s populated by heat that I hand make—flip a coin—
no matter how it lands, where you’re going—
is through they alleyways, back blocks, tenements, 
where if he don’t call a girl a bitch, he’s a gentleman. 
Misogyny expected—Sodom and Gomorrah.
Scary movie mind state—the problem ain’t the horror. 

In the movies, we die in the first scene, 
so we’re all really Drew Barrymore in the first Scream,
only it’s set in Harlem, maybe it’s in Detroit, 
the audience prays you don’t turn around—it ain’t The Voice. 
You fall as you’re running to get away— 
felonious metaphor, you do a year and a day.
Or die trying, 
lie silent, 
crack infested—surrounded by thirst, it’s Rock Island.
From 217 to 309, niggas open they rhyme books up and bleed on lines,
hope for some recognition—to cheat on dimes, 
ladies like Changing Faces, and we don’t mind.

Bars over the head like snatch lifts, 
dope boy antithesis—rhyme with a back flip.
Flip back one chapter,  finish the exposition—
Juice, on the roof, I’m standing right next to Bishop;
Raheem’s dead and Steel got shot—
We all know how the story ends—still I watch. 
Excited to see the violence—destined to See It Through.
Kinda funny, back in school, I pledged: I’m a Q.

Grew up in the era of ass whooppins
switches, belts, knuckles for mad lookin’, 
bus transfers, bummy and bad lookin’, 
lunchtime ciphers, dice get cash tooken. 

C-Style—A-dot, kind of the same guy—
Aries and Virgo—we should have been Gemini.
'Cause since shorties it was just him and I
talking more shit than a little bit, 
ignorant.
Wasn’t all good, but I choose how to remember it.
Mention it 'cause he sent me the track for me to spit to it.
97 Canibus, jaw dropped listening;
nobody spit like he did, and it’s been a minute since 
I had inspiration—so I listened closely.
Wondered what I’d say in conversation with the old me. 

“Stop drinking, pig is a filthy animal, 
if an elephant’s in the room, then you should be Hannibal, 
scribble down in your notebook all you can manage to
wait ten years, then publish it as the manual.”



Intro [I'm Doing The Talking]

A.D. Carson