Sometimes even a non-stop chatter-box like me is silenced by events of such magnitude that I simply cannot find suitable words. At those times, helpless, I retreat towards Shakespeare:
As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,
They kill us for their sport.
From his most apocolyptic play, King Lear.
Nothing more to say except perhaps a sort of numb, dumb, plaintive and futile wish that the agony of the survivors is abated somewhat over the coming days, months and years.
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