What must we brand ourselves with now—now that we’ve forgone our allegiances to our old kin for kindling? The spirit of our tribe once nourished us, and not so long ago. Our roots, our lineage, the tie that bound us to earth’s forever. Only the oldest families maintain themselves still. The state and its conferred status heap merit upon the productive, to be sure, but how much more and differently, the established. Even the newly minted millionaires, the heavy anchors they are to become—some of them, know not the old taproot any longer; what with their metal being of bronze at best while those eldest alchemists have been smelting wearily away at their cauldrons so long, why their lungs and fingers are burnt blacker than their slaves’. The remainder of us, the cannon fodder of our betters, we are left to waste away in these dingy cities, the smog and the plague blackening our already lost hearts made all the more confused by that dim haze, modernity’s ecstatic misery. We packed rats, nay sardines, monitored in every corner of the tin; with what pablum might they salve our sacred time-card punched pineal? Might it be with their aspirational animal brands of surrogate species we’ll never see in our own back yard, or with their sunshine glistening summertime Studebaker stories of old, or their segregatory swashbuckling party-approved proxy politics? Yes. These are what are meant to take the place of blood and soul, father and soil, heritage and hearth. But of what do I complain to you? Did your familial roots ever grow so deep? The deeper the root, the darker the ghosts of fathers past—so perhaps high horse hairshirts and yard sign morality suit you best. Perhaps your fathers’ hands were dirtier than you’d like to know. That other fellow; do you know his childhood training? He carries the burden of history’s truth in his blood, in his nose, in his hairline, and in his bank accounts. Your yoke is lighter if were to be honest. To see the past, to be heavily anchored costs much. To set sail, he envies you that, despite his own gallant galley seat. We each carry the burden and wish for the coin’s other side: heavy or light—Nietzche’s paradox, solved by either death or conquering. Either way the grass is already greener and yet the line between unequally yoked neighbors is uncrossable. So wear your brand proudly: rich or poor, powerful or resentful, and let’s just have the goddamned neighborly war perennially peeking over our fence-tops.