Perhaps you’ve hazarded an attempt to express, to a dyed-in-the-wool, hard-right Republican partisan, why you think a humane society, a system that is set up to include everyone, — is best for everyone. I have.

The outcome is similar to pivoting, only to smash your forehead into a concrete abutment.

Nietzsche, in his prologue, writes this feeling of astonishment and injury conveyed by the voice of Zarathustra. The audience of townspeople laugh at Zarathustra’s initial attempt to pique their interest. His instincts suggest future attempts will be hopeless. Zarathustra will try anyway. Maybe flattery will work. Who doesn’t enjoy “strokes,” to hear there is time enough, sufficient energy of youth remaining to seize this opportunity.

The time is coming when there will be left just one man. He/she will be fully reconciled to a tyrant, a boss that wipes away any due process. Language is impossibly convoluted, bent to the party’s purpose. Words like “love,” “creation,” and “longing” will be threadbare platitudes.

Oh, many remain alive, millions, hopping town to city like fleas, Ubering or using the airlines. The entirety of this final edition of homo sapiens are carbon copies, identical attitudes, a common lassitude, and tepid amusements. They have almost no resistance to believing the incredulous: they think they invented happiness, or that Donald J. Trump is the best ever of the presidents. Leaderless, a mob-like herd, fickle, unable to reason. This mob is the last man.

More than anything else, what irritates is the goddamn blinking! Saying they are the sane ones, they just keep blinking.

When Zarathustra had spoken these words,
he again looked at the people, and was silent.
“There they stand,” he said to his heart;
“there they laugh: they do not understand me;

So I will appeal to their pride.

Alas.
There will come a time
when man will no longer
launch the arrow
of his longing beyond man
– and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whir!

I say to you:
one must still have chaos in oneself
to give birth to a dancing star.
I say to you: you still have chaos in yourself.

Alas. There will come a time
when man can no longer give birth to any star.

Alas. There will come the time
of the most despicable man,
who can no longer despise himself.

Behold. I show you the last man.

“What is love?
What is creation?
What is longing?

What is a star?” – so asks the last man and blinks.

The earth has then become small,
and on it there hops the last man who makes everything small.
His race is as ineradicable as the flea;
the last man lives longest.

“We have invented happiness”,
say the last men,
and they blink.

They have left the regions where it was hard to live;
for one needs warmth.

One still loves one’s neighbor and rubs against him;
for one needs warmth…

One no longer becomes poor or rich;
both are too burdensome.

Who still wants to rule? Who still wants to obey?
Both are too burdensome.

No shepherd and one herd!
Everyone wants the same; everyone is the same:
he who feels differently goes voluntarily into the madhouse.

“Formerly all the world was insane”,
say the most refined,
and they blink.