JI had been in Kristiansand on official's errand and on the way to the train I was sitting in a cafe at the train station, I was in a miserable mood and glancing at an empty railway station in the rain only increased my melancholy and I thought of what had been the headlines in all the newspapers about the upcoming presidential election in America, and that the self-inflicted narcissist and worst president that America had ever had, could be elected again, were fundamentally abhorrent, and then I thought of my son's good friend and neighbor Knut Arild Hareide and his attempts to be straight-backed and heard him speak at P2 to spearhead Trump's Christian conservative friends in the kingdom, who bowed out Hareide when critical of Trump, and he had to raise his voice to rage at those who so rudely bowed him out, that was simply embarrassing, and this is of course food for Frp and their weird version of Christianity.
It is as if a wildfire is dreading the world well controlled by the pyromaniac of the White House.
At the railway cafe I talked to the owner of the cafe, who was from Chile, and just by looking at the newspapers that were on a counter under the counter, as well as many flags, I thought he was politically on the left; I did not ask, so here I guessed and could have thought, sitting at the cafe table, that there is something constantly trying to keep the world from being shaken to pieces, I could have thought, while drinking coffee and eating a homemade cake – and as I was about to order it was between the homemade cake or a croissant, and I wanted to ask the cafe owner if he knew the anecdote, which I did not know the truth about, who made the first croissants, but I did not; it was the Austrian bakers who were up early in the morning when the Ottoman forces were defeated by the Austrian forces, and the bakers then made a new moon shaped like a croissant – at the Chilean cafe owner who probably came here in the early 70's when Pinochet killed Allende and destroyed the whole Chilean democracy – even the great poet Neruda took his death from it, it is said, and the singer Víctor Jara was killed by the soldiers of Pinochet and I sat in the cafe and thought of the Spanish Civil War and all the intellectuals who was killed, and the great poet Lorca who was shot to pieces, and I glared out the window, and the gray rain-heavy train station was just in the right tone to think about the Spanish Civil War and the CIA in Chile, or the CIA all over the world , and how depressing. . .
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