When you goad my community to bomb your palace with you, when you introduce incredibly skilled friends who leave human feces in our meeting rooms, all we can think of is how perfect the destruction is. Why, when a fifth of my friends are dead, another fifth newly homeless, another fifth in psychiatric institutions, another fifth working for you to destroy other groups, and at least another fifth spending time in prison for things that you did, I tally the bodies and shape the tally into the beautiful rose that it is. The sweet, deep crimsonly sanguine, scent of this most beautiful of offerings, is too terrifying to do anything but hug closely. To walk up to and offer one's appreciation of. But how? How to tell you how beautiful and wonderful you are? How to make clear to you, that there is care and value for you as strongly as you gift the rest of the world with yours? What are the secrets of this strange language that seems the only one you speak to us?