And along the road stood those who had been injured many years ago. As pilgrims passed by, they ran from the ditches and woods. They would join in a plaintive wail that would grow in frenzy till each in turn would begin to tear the scabs from their old injuries. They would stand arms outstretched begging for help or screaming their rage at the injury they had suffered so many ages ago. But the Scab Pickers neither looked right nor left. They knew no other way. They stood making themselves bleed. The Pilgrims would pass by, giving alms as they trekked toward their destination. The scab pickers stood, bleeding but never moving toward the future.
Never to heal completely.
It is common experience that it is incumbent upon persons of authority or privilege to be responsible to the power to influence the behavior of others by being particularly careful with words that incite, such and die, death, kill, etc. Is money the birth of Hubris? Do we not care where we toss lit matches?