While these ideas are seemingly at odds with one another, they are actually related, and one begets the other. This idea asserts that we are now more combative, less tolerant, and more unhappy than our predecessors. Surprisingly, there is an equally powerful dialogue in our current culture that paints society today as backwards, hostile, and rife with conflict. This idea provides the basis for progressivism and encourages development, new ideas, and a rejection of tradition at an almost breakneck pace. All change is progress, and all progress is good, so goes the idea. Speaking cools the heat of my willingness to act.There seems to be a pervasive sentiment in society today that paints progress as an intellectual process which perpetually increases human fulfillment, success, and joy. While I talk here about the plan, Duncan lives. I fear the stones will echo and reveal where I am, breaking the awful silence that suits what I’m about to do so well. You firm, hard earth: don’t listen to my steps or their direction. Meanwhile old man Murder-having been awakened by the howls of his wolf-walks like a ghost, like that ancient Roman rapist Tarquin, to do the deed. Witches offer sacrifices to their goddess Hecate. Now half the world is asleep and being attacked by nightmares. It’s the murder I’m planning that’s affecting my eyes. I still see you-and some spots of blood on your blade and handle that weren’t there before. Either my eyesight is the only sense of mine that isn’t working, or it’s the only one that’s working correctly. You’re leading me the way I was going already, and I was going to use a weapon just like you. Deadly apparition, is it possible to see you but not touch you? Or are you just a dagger created by the mind, an illusion of my feverish brain? I still see you, and you look as real as this other dagger that I’m unsheathing now. I don’t have you, and yet I can still see you. Is this a dagger I see in front of me, with its handle aimed toward my hand? Come here, dagger, and let me grasp you. Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate’s offerings, and withered murder, Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. Now o’er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep. It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes. I see thee still, And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. Mine eyes are made the fools o’ th’ other senses, Or else worth all the rest. Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going, And such an instrument I was to use. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
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