"The child essays a longing well beyond its years, gaze speaking volumes of distress and the weariness, a reflection of the post industrial malaise, a shade of dismay in reaction to its mothers own furrowed visage.
By donning such incongruous and out-of –place headwear, we see the folly of a generation, a belief that the masses can continue to delude themselves, play the part of jubilance and picket-fence safety, and deny that the world has changed.
Like smoke clearing from a basement speakeasy, the truth, once veiled, is writ large:
smoke up, mother, we’re all about to die."
