I heard a joke once, a parody of society's true face.
A Man goes to a doctor, says he's depressed, life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world. The Doctor says treatment is simple, “The great clown Pagliacci is in town. Go see him, that should pick you.” The Man bursts into tears. “But doctor,” he says, “I am Pagliacci.”
A good joke that makes everybody laugh. But when the snare drums roll on, curtaining, we are still not sensible of its horrible meanings – we are the clown laughing on the stage. Yet deep in our mind we are filled with frustration, depression, stinginess and viciousness. Humans are savage in nature, even if you don't know who you are. No matter how much you try to dress it up, or to disguise it, it'll loom steadily in the course of time.
While I was watching the news three hours ago, the police claimed to have arrested murderers, six able bodied, nice-looking men. (They seem to be Thai or Fillipino.) They killed about sixty one fat people, extracting their fat in exchange for money, one body for four hundred thousand NT dollars. (Maybe they used it to make cosmetics.) I don't know whether they are doing this for money or for fun. What a horror.
When a thing is created, there must be an intention. But I see no reason the world goes like this. Perhaps the world was an accident. Perhaps nothing is created, like a clock without a craftsman. When we finally awake, it's too late.
Always has been, always will be, too late.