[reading the teleprompter] And we love it when it’s over, don’t we, folks? Love it when it’s over. When it’s gone away without hope of resuscitation or redemption or reunion. When there’s no reason to look back. But we always do, don’t we, folks? We always do
and for the lady, perhaps a candelabra, a sheer billowing nightgown, a decrepit mansion crumbling under the weight of its own secrets, and a misunderstood creature ostracized for their perceived monstrousness?
In a hundred years, after it is far too late, it will seem incomprehensible that we did not simply kill the 35-40 people directly responsible for destroying the planet.