In the city, the big city, humankind struggles against itself. Always moving and gyrating; always lurching to a dirge so hollow. From whence does such a spectacle originate, if not a man's breast, or a woman's heart? And are those really tears pouring from their eyes, or does the mascara run upon command? A nip of the knuckle for blood to rouge. A smile of veneers, and breath like sulfur. From black corners, moving eyes of the hungry wait breathlessly for their crumbs.
In the slower places, where the snow falls by itself, and the trees are too many to name; where the hot breath of a man is a red-laced Fool among the flowing black gowns of Death's Banquet Hall, life is not so saccharine. Hard work begets debilitating conditions and poverty is as much a badge of honor as stoicism.
From the fly-over lands, so great and vast and ageless, we plead with you...
Help us.