I try to be nice. Really, I do, but how long am I supposed to bite my tongue when I'm constantly confronted by such abysmal stupidity, such unfathomable inconsideration? I try to set a good example, but honestly, sometimes I think it's hopeless. They'll never learn anything from me. This world doesn't care about the things that matter anymore: the old ways, the right ways.
I see the future as a shattered looking glass, jumbled fragments of today swept carelessly into the dustbin of tomorrow, reflecting only chaos, leaving nothing but an empty frame. What good is that? Will an empty frame show them who they are? Will it show them anything at all? No, they'll smash the glass and burn the frame and sweep the ashes out the door. They'll sweep and sweep until every trace is gone, and then perhaps they'll have a look around, but they—the ignorant, the illiterate, the blind—won't see that nothing has been left to see: nothing left but disarray, nothing left but chaos and decay.
I try to be nice. Really, I do. I try to help. I try to make a difference, but sometimes . . . sometimes . . .