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In a society as terrifyingly fixated on enforcing positivity as our own, one must take long draughts of Aeschylus at ever diminishing intervals just to make it through the day. Deprived of the terrible beauty of his tragedies for more than five minutes, one risks forgetting one is something more than an automaton. How are we going to deal with the menace of a vain pleasure and a void cheerfulness which have grown so powerful and so ruthless? Is it our fate to succumb to its onslaught and collapse in defeat? or, in a heroic final stand, to prepare for universal broadcast a recorded performance of The Persians which has been put on infinite loop? To the lethal vacuousness of the present epoch, it is true, no antidote exists; the howled lamentations of the Chorus are the closest thing we have. But perhaps if we lend our ears to these desperate cries day and night, until our souls have been completely lacerated by the sound of them, we will at last awaken from this emotional coma in which we have wasted away for so long and begin to wail aloud ourselves, from the rooftops of our shopping malls, our fortresses of entertainment, our business towers, banks, jewelry shops and car dealerships, and drench the busy streets below in a ceaseless rain of tears.