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*
Picture me standing in one of the local parks around me, it is the quietest of all the parks, or else this scene would probably have never happened. The image is of me pushing around an empty swing and suddenly chanting in a very booming baratone voice belonging to that of a southern evangelical minister:
If I were to ask you what the soul of history was
What would you say that history was
If I were to ask you what the history of the soul was
What would you say that the soul was
If I were to ask you what the history of the soul was
What would you say that history was
If I were to ask you what the soul of history was
What would you say that the soul was