With the world so set on tearing itself apart, it don’t seem like such a bad thing to me to wanna put a little bit of it back together.
Be their hero, Clark. Be their monument, be their angel, be anything they need you to be. Or be none of it. You don’t owe this world a thing. You never did.
The world is quite like London. It’s not good. It’s not bad. It just is. There’s no morality or dishonor. Just your own lonely code. Until your race is run. Until the end. Until we’re all just ghosts of the people we once thought we were.
You are all my children, and you’re lost, because you follow blind leaders. These false gods, systems of the weak, they’ve ruined my world. No more.
You are not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your f*****g khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
The world is built on a wall. It separates kind. Tell either side there’s no wall, you bought a war. Or a slaughter.