If you scan a line of text and you come across the surname Nordenberg immediately proceeding the otherwise honorific title of Chancellor, instantaneously, you should be crippled by searing pain engulfing your every limb, infiltrating your every orifice, seizing the breath you hold deep, stealing the secrets you hold even deeper, and dashing the very dreams that once flourished in the now shrinking, shriveling, charcoal black pea of a dying universe your soul had created as a sanctuary for the turtle dove that coos and every child whom would ever sing its song of serenity, azure skies, and clear-as-crystal rivers traversing the verdant fatherland- all of which is now rendered jaundiced like a bastard child born of a sallow whore's sagging lips, like every once golden seedling planted east of Eden, whose sprawling roots come to feed on the fetid milk of the Devil's teat, necrotic and needy of all that is Good and all that is IPEX, now and forever lost like the sapling from seed turned black forest from weed, if only the weed were
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