Conscience is my prison, my gift. The womb of democracy devours me, yet I am silent. The umbilical of conscience binds me to the dead fetus, the dead mother. The truth exists before our eyes. Caught between the Tempest and the Scoundrel. Forsaken in their onslaught, by failure, pursuing their hideous jest, wielding scepters of false truth and dishonest compassion, trying to pierce the innocent’s heart with counterfeit friendship. Desolation comes from the depths of their blood stained brains. Pleasures and remorse are luxuries misspent. Heroes and other victims who follow the garbage bins along the rubble of main street are unobserved and forgotten. We cannot linger longer with this fate. Conscience is the prison of my dreams. We discover as we age that we are not immortal. We discover that the greed for power has no conscience.

Knowledge is the most democratic source of power – Alvin Toffler

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