"Speak Hands For Me" by FinnegansWake. [An oracle dreaming of Assad's death] A dagger shall go piercing through your heart, and you shall become startled, looking paralyzingly into the faces of your subjects - victims of your tyranny. Your mind fetters, you can feel tears, rolling down your eyes and a transcendent pain racing and surging towards your chest, where you now see a dagger that hangs. You see blood trickling out of your chest, under that cruel, sharp blade and you realize it's too late; Fate has had it's day -Et, tu brute, Memento mori-. You briefly reminisce about your mother, your people, childhood, devotion and the transience of life - thus, you gently whisper the word, "Sorry". Your body falls to the ground and you plunge into nothingness. From then, all that remains in these gracious Levantine lands is your dead insignificant corpse and a newborn Syria waiting to see tomorrow's sunshine. Freedom is written in stone. May this dagger be a token of peace and the markings on the stone be a prophecy of virtue. δημοκρατία