How do you imagine the woke beast? It is rough, surely, and slouches towards some unprofitable venue, so not Bethlehem.
I think of it as something ravenous but episodic in its appetites, a sort of Polyphemus for hire. It gorges in a destructive frenzy and then retreats to some dank corner to belch and sleep and slobber. The world, appalled by the spectacle of its rampage, instantly begins making excuses for its viciousness—were not its victims somehow to blame? Then forgetfulness spreads its enervating fog and the Zeitgeist enjoins us to put it all behind us because, after all, what difference at this point does it make™?
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