Mr. Mubarak, tragic figure
 

Mr. Mubarak,

You and I have a lot in common. We both once lorded over kingdoms, with vassals, and vast estates. We made peace. We made war. We made people. We destroyed people.

We certainly knew what was best.

And then the revolution came. Friends became cold. And from coldness, turned to enmity. It was nothing for them to go from deference to murder, in just moments. Or was it days? It doesn't matter, when the steel twists on tendons, splits ligaments, and severs the nerve--every impulse that used to be carried in that place, now twitching in the last throes of life. And death.

Oh, Mubarak, we once knew things. We were the great ones. And now we are the chaff of the harvest, winter's detritus.

Come with me, I will take you to the other side. The waters are deep and cold, and they will fill you. You will cough, you will scream, you will drink, and it will pour into you until they are you. The deep black water is you. And it stirs in moments, it laps on the hills and shores and cliffs of those who will never know us. Never join us. Never know what it was to be what it was, and the end, and the end.

Mubarak and me.

Father and Son.

Father murdered in a crowd, Son's position taken by the crowds.

Now that he has finally resigned, this is the perfect vulnerable time for the US to spend two trillion dollars forcing our type of democracy upon them. It will be for a noble cause, keeping their food prices low.