Those ones, the new vanguard speak of the brotherhood of sinners. We must converse among ourselves as sinners, mindful of sinfulness. This said with much bravado, much pride, a certain self-celebration, spoken like James Dean. When did tolerance cross the line? When did it offer its chest for a medal. When was the desire for forgiveness tossed along the roadside in a ditch. When did it float upon the waves too tattered and old-fashioned to tread the waves, the flotsam of shiny cruiser ships, when did it become lost in the wash of the great mechanical edifices of smart-uniformed clerics of reason?

Forgiveness asks for self-accusation, desire for change, a new life.

They rationalize, counsel us to be tolerant of the stinger left in the flesh to fester and swell. They calmly counsel to stunt our wings, circumscribe them, hold them short and buzzing, to go circuitous and noisy like the short-ranged garden bee. No long pennine flutes should propel us aloft. Instead they whisper to stay low to the earth, comfortable in our little plot of weeds, caught in the dry thistles of last year's faults. Let us not change. Let us be. You'll be and I'll be. And this will be our world.