London is suffering. So we will gaze unflinchingly at mangled corpses and stare, riveted with anticipation as the reporter asks the woman with 3 children how she feels now that her husband is dead, identified, we are told, by his splintered bones and shattered teeth.
And while we weep and rage, organize and mobilize, and rinse ourselves clean in the shower of carefully timed anecdotal praise of triumph over tragedy, small but powerful associations, bonded by their shared emotional blight, will consider how best to use our empathy against us.
I hate that I have become so cynical, that I MUST BE so damn cynical. But here it is, the ugliness we have wrought by allowing ourselves to be governed in place of governing ourselves.
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