Beneath this mask, there is more than flesh.
There is an idea, and ideas are bulletproof.
Who is D?
Who? Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a Man in a mask.
Well, I can see that.
Of course, you can. I’m not questioning your powers of observation. I’m merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked Man who she is.
Oh, Right.
But on this most auspicious of occasions, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace soubriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona:
Deus! On display, a duly demure demimonde, defined diffusely as both damsel and demon by the dwindling of destiny. This disguise, dually a defensive device of deception, dovetails duty to the Vox Dei, diminished yet deathless.
However, this dedicated delegation of a déclassé deviation stands dignified, and has declared to devour these depraved and devilish dormice deigning depravity and defending the deeply debaucherous and dastardly defilement of democracy.
The only decision is diplomacy; a détente, held as divine, not in doubt, for the deference and devotion shall one day deliver the daring and the dauntless.
Doubtlessly, this delirium of discourse drifts most daedelian, so let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you, and you may call me D.
Are you, like, a crazy person?
I’m quite sure they will say so…
Why the charade?
Because: Artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use them to cover the truth up. Besides, it’s not the messenger who matters, but the message.
