As strikingly evil the Great War was – the French and Russians itching to try out all of the new weapons of war, it was still a time of epics. Not just powerful moments akin to German unification and the Romanticism movement, but the epics in art and music. Tchaikovsky rings in my ears – pulses in my veins. It is begging me to fight for my children, my country, GOD HIMSELF. What is more epic than destiny; than honor, duty? “My holy country, maintaining the constellation of Rome in our hearts”. There is nothing epic today; no full ensemble trumpeting your commute to work in your 2008 Newport Blue Subaru Outback. Even the phrase “outback” – exploring a new frontier analogous to cameling through Deutsch-Südwestafrika. It is word magic. You have been left as a man without purpose – without destiny, by modernity. You exist to wait tables and mop floors, because your forefathers never finished their genocide. You pay thousands of dollars and wait through dozens of flight delays to take vacations staring out windows from four-star hotels. When you do leave, you walk down paved roads decorated at the sides with storefronts advertising the most blown out stereotypes of your surroundings. Everything has been coated in nine layers of fairy dust, and you sneeze when you walk off your tourguide’s path. My heart aches for the blood of fathers, and my groin does the same for their wives and daughters. Snaking through these urges is the CIA implant pulsing dopamine at the sight of Gamestop Funkopops. Tchaikovsky is muted as tweenage FBI sex agents deepthroat bananas to the new Billie Eilish. Every father needs to give their son a gun, but more importantly; he needs to teach him when to pull the trigger. In the nostalgia for a life I’ve never had, the real world breaks back through and the machine like trumpeting is replaced with actual machines. Algorithmic pop songs littering the air waves – literal Satanic child raping Freemasons piercing my skull and brain, scrambling my magnetism. NSA agents hammering your emails with reddit threads hoping for a child sex response. Hold these weak men by their hands and lead them to the camps. They can learn what God wants from behind wooden doors.