| The exhortations of traditionalism ring hollow: the echoing footsteps of
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| cross-bearing martyrs, the rejection of free will, the inability to meet the
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| challenge of critical thought and individualism.
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| Heads bowed and eyes closed to the joys of today.
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| Three things only do slaves require: work, food, and their religion.
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| Those callous-kneed ringer-kissers.
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| The eyes of providence are blinded to the suffering that surrounds.
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| True compassion is drowned by the baying and shuffle of the flock,
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| bleating through a self-constructed hell.
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| The fire in your heart is out.
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| That once blazing light wreathed in the gloom of depravity, that unwavering
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| standard to rally behind, that intellectual harvest--it's now barren and wasted,
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| strangled by weeds of complacency, frozen and bloodless in passion’s tomb.
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| I must escape sentimentality; |
| clear away these dusty, maudlin affections;
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| turn my back on the corpse of the past; |
| learn to accept the death of ideals.
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| Everything has changed.
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| Nothing has changed* |