They learned to strike with violence long before there was language, and thus before they learned to strike or -see- or heal… with silence, or with perfect utterance. Every man learns to throw a punch in endlessly developing ways, but nearly none learn to use the music of their voices, which, in can kill in a fraction of a second. Can render unconscious. Can enlighten. Can heal. Can transform.

They cannot form a sentence that will move the context out from violence into humanity, awareness, mutuality, remembrance of all that is precious… but man can they throw a punch or sling one of a thousand improvised insults.

They know everything about the gun, and derision…and nothing about the mind — or intelligence. Nothing. Everything about the computer, and nothing about their relations with Language, Knowledge, Memory. Our children are the cargo-cultists of ancestral consciousness and their own humanity.

They play with toys whose origins are too terrifying and divine for them to admit, and so, in endless modes of lethal masquerade, they trade their birthrights for arrays of prisons, and the parasites that demand, run, inhabit, and prosper from them. But in their throats, and even in their silence, is a power that will shatter stone… and, I dare say even this. Raise the dead to life.

The voice. Not the scalpel. Not the gun. Not the bomb.

The voice.