We sit in the ashes of all the tragedies of our fathers and grandfathers and wonder how we ever got here and can't imagine the tragedies coming to us oh god the blood the millions, billions of lives snuffed out for somebody to be right and still we say that our children have it wrong that things were better when our fathers and mothers were the largest ones in our lives we want so desperately to cling to something and what if we found out there was never any wisdom there just a guess and a shrug and to shut up and keep going over the hill surely we won't have to shower ourselves in blood once we crest this rise and still the blood pours on, and on, and on, and covers us. We were born on this hill, born into this torrent of blood. Born into this gout of pain and suffering. There is always the crest of the hill, and us, the blood.