Upon everyone's twentieth birthday, I offer my obligatory congratulations and take great pleasure in sending forth an ominous sentiment of a simple "Two Decades" reminder.
Upon my very own twentieth birthday, I realized that it would not be two decades at all. It would, in fact, be the close of my second and beginning of my third.
Please make no mistake in assuming that I had not completely realized this; rather, it was my own definition's lack of clarity that calls for this explanation. I intend for my remark to be about the closing.
I hastily searched for a little "something something" for this grand closing of the decades, and lo and behold, a perfectly ominous poem rose from the ashes. It perfectly construes the ominousness of which this looming notion derives.
What have you done in your Decennali Segundo (two decades)? Machiavelli might be all for employing ill-will in order to gain power, where I am not; however, he does make quite an argument with valid points. I suppose the question really boils down to whether or not you can really achieve power without. If you think that you do, then how sad you must be! Must you take pride in another's defeat!
Set forth into your third with gracious gumption!
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