We dream of Edens [or facsimiles] Milk and honey lands [with honeybees] but mostly songbirds keeping spirits afloat, ripe fruit and fowl to eat; here and there a nanny goat – to provide us with cheeses. Yes, everything from planet earth that pleases, and these sweet dreams are emminently bucolic – banished the gritty Bukowski scenes, in gutters, alcoholic. It’s a long and bloody road that man has travelled, his hopes perpetually rent or slowly unravelled. I ask you Pusser, Why was it ever thus and must it remain this way?
Stupid people over-armed and ready for the fray?