Harriet, it's Biggy. I just wanted to let you know that as of tomorrow I am going to be cryogenically frozen until this whole global civil war mess is finished. Please note that I am not sick. Also please note that I am perfectly healthy. I have given the corporation in charge of my body - who shall, for reasons of national security, remain anonymous - explicit instructions, as well as a rather large retainer, to unfreeze me exactly fifty years from tomorrow. And while I realize that you will no longer be here - because, look, you don't really seem to be able to dance to the rhythm of the neo-liberal beat, and, as such, like all others who share your two left feet, you will most likely, in no short time, be excommunicated from life, i.e., from the planet - I want you to know in advance that I will miss your hard work and you company and the rather seductively disturbing juxtaposition between your angelic face and guttersnipe voice. In other words, it was a pleasure knowing you. Please don't worry about my eventual resurrection or the fact that I may be re-born into a world I don't understand. I suspect that the world I will come back to will resemble the one I leave in exact detail, even if it has been mostly rendered kaputt. What I am getting at, and what I have never been able to articulate to you until right now, is that the future has been put on hold. The horizon shows nothing but an endless present, in which two aggrieved factions duke it out with each other until one or the other is standing. Which faction will be standing - the perpetually humiliated and withered white working class, or the eternally brutalized and vengeful non-white peasant class - I cannot say. But in the words of one of our finest actors, 'Always bet on black.' Do widzenia and powodzenia.