Whenever I feel down, I just imagine myself standing near my local river. Looking upon the now crimson water with the Moon and Star glistening in it, reminding me of the holy the good ol stars and bars as I turn around and walk around the streets. With every step I take, a t*k skull cracks and shatters underneath my steel boot.

I look upon the lampposts and savor the t*k corpses hanging from them. Every single square meter has a t*k roach executed one way or another. Whether they've been strung to lampposts or their heads impaled on spears. I salute my ARYAN brothers, their giant, muscular bodies, adorned with trophies, decapitated heads of t*k's who resisted the conquest.

With every passing moment, I savor the cries of the last t*k women as they are BLEACHED, as they watch their children and husbands murdered. I smile as the last roach crawls away from me, stuttering bix nood garbage with his nigger tongue. I imagine myself grinning as I obliterate his skull with my mighty steel boot. I open my eyes, and my day has been restored. Even if I won't experience this, my ARYAN children, my ARYAN brothers will.