I walk about town, my legs and arms moving jerkily, my head swiveling from side to side, and I tell each person I meet that the future is simply no good if we can't enjoy freedom there. Little mice with soulful eyes. Soulful eyes and a plaintive wail. Often, people do not know what to make of this. They walk quickly past me, see through me, their heads held stiffly erect.
Freedom is a cold place.
A lonely place. Certainly not the members of Mazinga. But this does not faze me. It does nothing to discourage me. I know that the four man-children in Mazinga will pay for their arrogant haughtiness . . . in blood.