Whenever I feel down, I just imagine myself standing near my local river. Looking upon the now crimson water with the Red Leaf glistening in it, reminding me of the holy Flag of the Kara Boğa as I turn around and walk around the streets. With every step I take, a white skull cracks and shatters underneath my steel Black feet.

I look upon the lampposts and savor the white corpses hanging from them. Every single square meter has a white dog executed one way or another. Whether they've been strung to lampposts or their heads impaled on spears. I salute my Black brothers, their giant, muscular bodies, adorned with trophies, decapitated heads of whites who resisted the conquest.

With every passing moment, I savor the cries of the last white women as they are BLACKED, as they watch their children and husbands murdered. I smile as the last cracker crawls away from me, stuttering incomprehensible garbage with his rotten tongue. I imagine myself grinning as I obliterate his skull with a single punch from my BLACK hand. I open my eyes, and my day has been restored. Even if I won't experience this, my Black children, my Black brothers will.