XIII. World Cup

The proceedings of the World Cup are, for all intents and purposes, diplomatic:

For a brief moment, language barriers fall and all are embraced for the Ball. Follow the Ball. Your language, your face. The people peer and jeer the disgraced, but their faces are grave for the sake of the game. Every four years we revere the boundaries of race and nation; fuck France! In a hostel somewhere in Montevideo, we take a moment for a mental video and cheer for a country that will never make it. Perhaps some time, four years down the line, a new temporality will take over and trash our beliefs. But, with a distinct lack of snacks we become too drunk to account for the moment, so we forget the unimportant and sand down souls;

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLLL