Un site fort chatoyant
Labour sul, labour nul !




I sit in my cubicle, here on the motherworld. When I die, they will put me in a box and dispose of it in the cold ground. And in all the million ages to come, I will never breathe, or laugh, or twitch again. So won't you run and play with me here among the teeming mass of humanity? The universe has spared us this moment.

Anonymous, Datalinks