Bewildered masses fulfill obligations set upon them by notorious guides. Having performed well, the nobility bestows modest sums upon faithful subjects for their priceless labor to purchase necessities in prearranged portions.
Long forgotten are days when people answered to, handled themselves. Today, marionets dance to the tune of pied pipers—and with fierce pride. Acknowledge a person works. Decline, however, to endorse their immodesty (for allowing remote entities to profit from their labor while abiding in debt for what is free) and you rate an antagonist.
Subsist without worldly facility, I say, beyond paying suppliers of ready-made artifacts. Produce your own clothing, nourishment, shelter. Otherwise, despite high spirits, you rate a dupe. Harnessed individual vitality yields profits for distal stewards, who, if possible, would levy a charge for each time one’s eyelids wavered.
Pride cleaves to the heart like leprosy to skin. Poor miserable creatures: oblivious to how hard their hearts are, the damage they contract, because of lack of feeling. Vainglory percolates from within, takes the path of least resistance, always. At best, certain people may engage in futile efforts to negate wells of pride, hemorrhaging from every persuasive division of fallen humanity.
Money is bait and leisure is a hook to parting souls. Nay, establishing universal control will take generations. Yet time is waxing short, evidenced by the number of people in all quarters who rely on sleazy money besides permeating surveillance apparatus.
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