Carnivale- Preacher Speech

We never consider the little ones. We only put on our clothes. Who can see the children feeding the endless, ravenous hunger of the textile mill, mechanical mouths that aren’t choosey: silk and thread, a lock of hair, a scrap of scalp, tiny, torn fingers. We only turn up the heat. Why think of the boys in the mines crouched over the chutes? For hours they sit, sifting the refuse from the coal, their backs bent. Old men by nine, black lung by is heavy and hard, hands are soft and fragile; crushed