To know this life isn't worth the paper it's printed on. Sure, it has its moments. Nothing's all bad. Even Hitler loved his dog. But there is something wrong with things. There is something wrong with everything. The simple pleasures simply don't add up to the incontestable fact that life, if you have your eyes open, is an abomination. You may be happy enough. Shame on you. It is a form of moral blindness to smile in an abattoir. We all live our comfortable lives on the backs of nameless and numberless suffering others, human and animal, and to say "So what?" is to spit on the inconceivable horror that is a daily fact of existence to so many. We know, we know, we're a bummer. But it must be said. This life we lead is built upon a heap of corpses. There is nothing to be done about it, either. The situation is hopeless. As it was, so it shall always be. Human progress is a grim joke. And the punchline is composed of bulletholes on the walls of buildings from here to Minsk.