Is conscience something we merely console ourselves with when the world we envy turns on us and mocks us with a moral-free smile?

Turning over and over without settling is a symptom of an undeniable lust for the things we have learnt not to covet, for acceptance of their unjustified place in a good life.

They all snort and roll in the dirt, happy as pigs as we starve like anorexic babies, let only to feed just enough to keep our delusions fervent and our apathy feverish.

Why is fair questioned when it cannot be found?

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