It was a simpler time when the bad guys wore Nazi uniforms and the world was divided between us and them. Today, as the terror ambles from one city to another, from one continent to another, and as the body counts pile up, we fraudulently convince ourselves that we are involved because we watch the events unfold on the small screens in our palms and we express our horror to a network of disembodied souls. We have become voyeurs in a digital age who ponder everything and resolve nothing.
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Still, we man the water brigade and pass the buckets despite the futility of it all. In the end, even I am reduced to little more than a mere online, digital gesture. Truly, this must be a Canto of the Inferno.