It’s a strange feeling when the thought of someone’s death makes you weep. In the otherwise normal course of thinking, some previously unavailable horrific truth arises, then an autonomic response. If you don’t resist, you proceed, face in hands.
There are no candles at Sproul or beneath the Campanile at UC Berkeley, no pictures, no flowers, no shrine.
It comes as no surprise that the making of a contemporary martyr would occur on an American college campus.
It comes as no surprise, too, that the publicly broadcast aggravated murder of our country’s biggest evangelist for our most fundamental, nominally shared values would occur there as well.
It’s no surprise that its actual cause would be a clueless child, a practical drooling idiot with a head full of inane, facile, conformist establishment slop about affirming genitals and “fascism.”
It’s no surprise, still, that the sounds of moral confusion, the gleeful celebration of a gruesome public murder, political violence, anti-Christian violence, and gratuitous anti-American domestic terrorism, would be heard from the many.
The Kirk Pill occurs when one is black-pilled into the tenth sublevel of hell. There is no light here. There is no battle to be fought. Scream if you want; no one can hear you. There is only a ubiquitous evil that advances your perpetual psychic death by a thousand cuts in the ghetto of your nightmare.