I see my nation standing on a cliff. Behind her rages all-consuming fire, and before her lays the abyss.
In the fire there is no morality. For to the flames, all material is fuel. There is no difference between twig and branch, between good and evil. What is law, but a social construct, binding your freedom? If man is naught but himself, why restrict him to convention, why not permit himself any pleasure? The fires of nihilism rage, for nothing truly exists, and therefore only carnal enjoyment reins.
Joy, the fire crackles at her. For in the flames, there are no consequences. Any seed that takes root in her womb may be burned away. There is no future, only the present feeling, the animalistic instinct, and wo to any who fret about the charred remains.
The fire says, these things burn, and are pleasure to me. Why should I not have them? All things are feed to fire.
Turning away from the flames that blister her heels, she sees the darkness. The cool wind blows across her face, a refreshing chill.
There is only one path forward, and the wind is pulling her. A path in which she is alone in darkness. Quiet and oblivious to the burning earth, she may scream and face a voluntary fall. And whatever persons she does not want, or does indeed wish for, will be irrelevant. Everyone is alone in death, no matter how loved she may be.
She need only turn her back to the flames, and stamp out the sparks, and her path to the edge will be clear. After all, how could such coldness be wrong, in the face of fire?
Does she not wish for the cool tendrils of death to whoosh over her? To sweep away the thoughts of every unpleasant challenge she has ever faced?
Could she not cough up the smoke, and cleanse her lungs of every alien part? What care has she, for the sharp rocks below? Who could have seen them in the dark?
She has only moments left, to make her choice. Time is running out, and we must decide; how should we kill her? To the unknowing chasm, or through the burning torment? If only we could grant some small gift, an ointment to the fire, or a parachute to the fall. But it is too late now. We have no heart with which to provide mercy.
I have a mind to smite her where she stands, so that she might not scream as she falls over the side, or that she might not feel her flesh devoured. But to do so would rob the universe of justice, and in a land without mercy, justice must be served.
Neither death nor darkness will forgive her.