As the beard hangs down and as the gravity of the situation becomes a little lower and lower, so seems to be the case with my life. I remember back in Persia when beards meant something, the gods wore them with pride, wrapped bronze clasps on them enchanted with magic and symbols. A few short years ago a whole generation of persians spawned, hair all the way to the hips. Now, all that hair, all those majestic beards lay on the ground, cut up and sweeped away like trash. But my one is still young, like a yemeni 20 foot baby tarzan going next door to india to catch an elephant to ride. There seems to be a funny image going around in people's minds about the people from the bush. The beard seems to pull u inwards towards the middle of the country, as if yanked by a chain, away from the smooth beardless baboonfaced freshskins that don't understand the pull of gravity and what it does to the neck muscles. The enemy back then were quite inventing, they invented the scissors and went to war with out kind, scared that the evil medusian heads were coming to get them, their hair shone like the sun and attacked our eyes. What a war it was...when gravity beckons, sometimes u have no choice, u go with the gravity or u chop the beard, but the best thing to do, is put the beard on the enemy instead...
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