The art of war behind closed doors,nBretton Woods, 1944.nTo liberalize the flow of liesnand white noise information their contingency,nI believe to bleed us like economies.nWe failed to realize this,nthe devils internalized the occupation.nnIf I swallow something evilnstick your fingers down my throat.nI can't recall the faces of names,nbut I manage to know where to place the blame.nnTheir vast array of weaponry,ndeployment or diplomacy,nthe trilateral pillars of international financial killers.nTheir brutality, I concede,ntempered with cool efficiencynfor sarin gas and shot gun blasts,nleave imprecise incisionsnto dislocate the act from our actions.nThe careful hands of death's technicians.nnPixilate the debate,nreplicate our lives, a facsimile.nSuch a horribly beautiful rendition.nTheir alien tongue rolls off our lipsnlike bits of binary code.nWe failed to recognize,nthe devils digitized the conversation.nnIf I swallow something evilnstick your hands down my throat.nShattered hearts and broken hands,nall part of the plan, all part of their plans.