Thus, wea­ry of life, in view of the great consum­ma­tion which awaits us — tomor­row, we rush among our friends congra­tu­la­ting our­selves upon the joy soon to be. Thoughtless of evil we crush out the mar­row of those about us with our hea­vy cars as we go hap­pi­ly from place to place. It seems that there is not time enough in which to speak the full of our exal­ta­tion. Only a day is left, one mise­rable day, before the world comes into its own. Let us hur­ry ! Why bother for this man or that ? In the offices of the great news­pa­pers a mad joy rei­gns as they pre­pare the final extras. Rushing about, men bump each other into the whir­ring presses. How fun­ny it seems. All thought of mise­ry has left us. Why should we care ? Children lau­ghin­gly fling them­selves under the wheels of the street cars, air­planes crash gai­ly to the earth. Someone has writ­ten a poem.