Credulity and Suspension

Allow me to express a momentary displeasure with serials, despite the fact that they've driven the market for narratives since the discovery of the stylus and the evolution of play acting: If you have a mature British woman engaged in bigamous relationships because the bigamy is conveniently transcontinental, why would the British authorities treat the British but illegal husband as legitimate, allowing him to arrive in Hong Kong before informing him he had been duped? I was unconvinced of Anthony Wong's repressed pain as the real Asian husband of the deceased Meg Harris in White Dragon, and can see already the "good" Britons  trying valiantly to get the enigmatic Mandarins to behave themselves without the benefit of Charles George Gordon willingness and ability to apply his better disciplined troops to the matter. Wouldn't I be better off applying myself to the implied reconciliation of  The Upside?

Prison Planet traumatized me Wednesday evening when I was looking to weasel my way into whatever support we can gauge through a thread exchange. Strangely, this always intersects, despondency pierced by triggers through which I am better off not becoming open to the ferocity of fighting back, tearing through me like a lash. There is absolutely no respect for the dignity of life in what this man did, and in the era of a just monarchy he would be put to death for offending the divine. Now try putting the agony this lion experiences in a power chair through which life has been circumscribed from birth. This is why I obscure the obvious, or seem to be posting merely what it pleases me to examine, most of the time. I've nothing left to live for, that full metal jacket burning my lung, rousing my bile and a metallic taste at the back of my throat, artery under my armpit throbbing.

And this? A metropolis with aggressive neon spectrums just a little freer than the homogeneous, and frightening temerity of Beijing.