To those who spend all day thinking about the play of the dead, to the great critics of the play, to the writers who can't hold their ass for six months, to every noble white tiger and dragon, and to the emo artists who are enemies of the world.
It's your dad. You're protecting him.
But you didn't tell your father?
"Don't you contaminate the stage. Don't you dare. Too much swearing."
"You haven't had enough.
"Strike Literature"
"We come to Tuichi."
"I think this script sucks."
These statements are like elementary school writings and are harmless.
When you are given the power to express, you suddenly lose your sense of purpose and remain silent for a long time.
But you, who have low knowledge and low concentration, have not seen anything after that, and have been able to breathe out of your mouths for an hour and a half.
It is also good to analyse from the theatrical theory system, from the psychological point of view, from the social situation, from the point of view of the critical force of a gun, which will point directly to the core contradictions and all sources of life-related suffering.
When you send a gun into your hands, you use it as a broom, and stab an actor on the stage like a sacrifice, and stab a writer and make a corpse. It's a good name. It's a trick.
Win!
"Didn't they make us despise them? Producers are still inciting people to attack the scene, and writers are shaking, and actors look like bullies. I don't call me retarded, or I'll shit their heads."
Demeaning others and raising yourself is win-win, win-win means win twice.
That day, when you lean a little, you move your ass in the office to the side of the slope. The fat drops are all over the place, and they're killing the dog you once put down for life. You used to comfort yourself with the eunuchs in your heart. It was all about life.
"The eight people did 21 days of work, should it be as cheap as I lick my boss' as I usually do in my ass?" And you thought, "Oh, I can't do this. Meng Gyeong Fai didn't ask me to be a valor. Oscar, I can win."
That's what you think, but when you go to a pheasant show interview, you even talk bad.
All of you are advised that this time you will not be finished with your scolding.
You all have a very high quality and taste, and this is the evaluation. But one day, if you sneak out to see another play, you're going to see another piece of shit in one of those fancy theaters like Footwash.
The technologist in this wash-up city has deprived you of the power to criticize, you cannot speak, you can only applaud with the rest of the idiots and cry.
If you don't stand up and say no, be an ostrich, you're such a dick.
There is no dust on the feet of a man who is either lying in a coffin in a life jacket or who has just hung himself.
You have buried your ideals, for the sake of life, and you have given up your innocence, and you have told others that you should do so, in the face of a saint or a man who has come to you, that you should try not to give yourself to the filial filial filament, to let others do it for him, in his name, in my art, in my taste, and after that you will not have to have sex for the sake of your loved ones.