We Are Not The Only Avatars Of

In Twentieth-century Old Earth, A Fast Food Chain Took Dead Cow Meat, Fried It In Grease, Added Carcinogens, Wrapped It In Petroleum-based Foam, And Sold Nine Hundred Billion Units. Human Beings. Go Figure.

The Powerful Have Received Their Share Of The World's Attention Even When Their Power Has Been Shown As Sheer Evil. The Victim's Remain The Faceless Masses. Numbers. Mass Graves. These Monsters Have Fertilized Our Century With The Mass Graves Of Their Victims And It Is Time That The Powerless Had Names And Faces -- And Voices.

The Victorians, They Were Like The Germans In World War Ii. They Could Not Stop Recording Details About Their Lives And Their Age.

She Had Always Felt That The Essence Of Human Experience Lay Not Primarily In The Peak Experiences, The Wedding Days And Triumphs Which Stood Out In The Memory Like Dates Circled In Red On Old Calendars, But, Rather, In The Unself-conscious Flow Of Little Things - The Weekend Afternoon With Each Member Of The Family Engaged In His Or Her Own Pursuit, Their Crossings And Connections Casual, Dialogues Imminently Forgettable, But The Sum Of Such Hours Creating A Synergy Which Was Important And Eternal.

Every Age Fraught With Discord And Danger Seems To Spawn A Leader Meant Only For That Age, A Political Giant Whose Absence, In Retrospect, Seems Inconceivable When The History Of That Age Is Written.