The moral man has no duties except owed to the sun-washed era of the white beard and towering pillars that line the courtyard; it has been all along the man who by different names suffered for our namesake, and then above him punished those rascals that did otherwise; and whether any of those ever came to fruition is up to the careless mendicant who sits by the roadside and contemplates; he is really no different from the altar boy watching the trees sway beyond the silvery panes; and his high master calls for him to deliver the milk; as blind as Fortune moves him through the cloudy fields, the sun streaked across the ageing features of his face; he falls to knees before the mighty yolk; smashing the earth, he brings up before him the nameless vanities of praise…


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