news of the filterings through a post leftist left within a post democracy represented, mostly by spies who years for castles and slaves:

Help 107 Shelter, at 237 W 107th Street a woman's intake shelter in Brooklyn, as Help USA, inspiring openmindedness through its inclusion of a Keith Haring drawing in its title has no hot water, an elevator patched with duct tape, has a Gonzales at Queens College Chairperson of the Art Department connected Social Worker that flings mucus bits to clients and asks them of they're mentally stable immediately afterwards, and triumphs her fascist boyfriend's beatings of her since they make her feel like a woman, thinks of all single women as stalkable through her organization and whores, is supported in its entirety by the social register work organization there, or Miss Josephs and Miss Russell, who transfer you out (me) as soon as you go to the Department of Homeless Services, are obstructed from representation, hell, even seeing another case manager by a Chase since another author, or Mosley, can write better blogs than you and says she'll return your calls or call you and never does when you're there to report misinformation and set ups by the same to claim you're in violation when you're not, and sets countless clients against you who get their mail delivered on the premises, a key to their room, can eat in their room, can stay after 8 in their room, and organize as soon as you step outside by shouting your name to passerbies who are there to insult and stalk homeless as a pastime, while you don't, featuring one harasser saying you do too much, you should let them do for you, it's unfeminine, women should be in brothels where maybe if someone likes them they can marry and then he and only he does for them and (Russell) : who could stand Keith Haring, I wear a neon yellow striped raincoat to "spot you" in public...God be praised!

president Obama announces to his steeple people that he wants me to be a community rape because he's seceded from representing democrats and with me that approach works best since he's declared an undeclared race war through my blog that could be a MMMmmm M! spy blog by Stamford class entertainer, Condalisa Rice, also tracks down hotspots and interrupts connections with this crew at the new shelter, a continuation of the old shelter, where I have synchronized swimmer roommates who wear coats when I may step out, lie down when I may do so, and futz with their lockers when I need to, much the same like the old roommate, Roxanne Massiah, at 316A, and the entire Garcia family, dropped dustballs like her room's dustballs by the MoMA staircase and had me followed by older women who would try to hit me while watching a film in the theater, also through the great collaborationist impulse of the staff and dug deep within my upper jaw to dangle my molar for George Bush through her text contact with Condalisa Rice.

Coat's back, huffing and puffing because I intimated leaving and chose to post instead; now the kind, little homeless woman asks me in a quaky voice something I don't even respond to, calling me "miss" to her mammy, forgetting that before she was discussing Italians as large cocks to unravel and reveal me, and now she's mysteriously addressing her cellphone and clambered on her bunk bed to better spy on the click my fingertips make on my laptop's-don't say it! They may spy on it! You'll betray the voting public that uses computers it's illegal if you vote! constituency crew like Angela Davis, who, not knowing me, has formed an opinion about me without even reading my blog, and since I'm not a TeeVee face, who'll miss me?  just got into spying my password for Barack Obama because he and she are black enough to pass as democrats.

She's growling in her lair, the bunk, saying how if I say they'll transfer me upstate somewhere if I don't know my rights, or transfer me, what have you, and then I'll be dead, or a torture what have you. Yesterday the guard, another we are a family female, was checking to see if she could rile up a police van and kidnap me from shelter to shelter space until I reach  Carneceria, Mexico. All for the amusement of her crowned superiors, of which she's a faithful servant.

Davis will testify how I could not possibly be a serious scholar, and so will Burstein, who arranged to have my paper stolen on survival in concentration camps. Hence the surround sound torture with the entire shelter staff in the dining area during lunch speaking as if I had gone to sleep and woken in confederate slave heaven. Who, who will believe me?