Beware the god who cannot laugh, the man who will not set himself apart in three distincts – an urge of contradiction welling up from bandaged hands, found impertinence; the showing of technique that’s bound and evidently struggling for its breath, for regression. Time at a time when aggression could mean I strike first, like you better; one of the moves I could never backfist as he does, as it trembles. It takes more than skill to resemble a master in art, an artist in making; the image of me as intending to stand on my tie, hand in your even with utleast of cares, there to declare me aware and in lesion, in light of what’s loud and inherent in those of our kind, this fighting. Come smile, come find me – crunching and a weight inside me calling for a better flesh. I will reach, I will show you what I mean by fist; nothing more will matter. As I flinch, opposition scatters; as farang, I can bring you to the ground.