/lit/ - Literature

I can hear her groaning as the birth pangs increase in frequency. They are marginalizing themselves, accelerating the process of annihilation. The writing on the wall is obvious. Paranoid, rootless, they are weak and react with ferocity. They look, starry eyed at the deeds of this fathers, seeing the conquests, the glory, the spirit, while forgetting, or ignoring, that this bone-strewn path lead to present world, to the phenomenon of the great replacement. We are victims of our own success. No king, no class, remains in the palace indefinitely. One cannot blame the newcomers. Yes, the are passive destroyers. But what is left to save? The rot has already set in - is there any surprise that it crumbles? Our fathers are responsible, for better or worse. They were not hapless victims; they were active arsonists. This blind, anarchic impulse is fruitless, self-destructive, serves only the purposes of higher mechanisms. The spilling of innocent blood is unfortunate, regardless of the victims. Are these echoes or premonitions of the charnel houses? No, it is only idiotic rage, the rage of a dispossessed child who was promised the plantation but is left with a patch of plum trees.