Weird question of the day today for you guys. Do you know in your individual capacity how to read and write proper English?

The answer should be yes. Obviously we are in America. We should think it's it is our language. That doesn't seem to be the case.

Plus later on it's extraordinary. You're not going to want to miss this. A young white man was just shot by police.

But people are not protesting. Why aren't they protesting? Where are the white people? Where are you?

So all that more today coming up on Candacellans.

Somebody commented this quotation under yesterday's podcast episode and I wanted to share it. I actually had never heard this quotation.

It reads, the decay of society is praised by artists as the decay of a corpse is praised by worms.

I'm going to read that quotation to you again because it's really powerful. The decay of society is praised by artists as the decay of a corpse is praised by worms.

A quotation was written initially by Gilbert Kay Chesterton.

And it put me into deep thought, why do you have people praising the decay of our society.

It has decayed in so many different ways. Further to that point Matt Walsh tweeted this last week.

If you want to see how much the English language has deteriorated in modern times, go read the letters that random infantrymen wrote home to their families during the Civil War.

These were young men often without much formal schooling who wrote naturally like poets. Here is one example.

So again, this is written by an infantryman, Pennsylvania infantryman during the Civil War. He wrote, under the dark shade of a towering oak near the Dunker Church lay the lifeless form of a drummer boy.

Apparently not more than 17 years of age, flax and hair and eyes of blue and form of delicate mold.

As I approached him, I stooped down and as I did so, I perceived a bloody mark upon his forehead.

It showed where the leaden messenger of death had produced the wound that caused his death.

His lips were compressed. His eyes half open. The bright smile played upon his countenance.

By his side lay his tenor drum, never to be tapped again. It is beautiful. It is haunting just as Matt Walsh accurately described it and it is poetic.

That's exactly right. And to think that somebody was just writing a letter home to his family members, somebody from the Pennsylvania Volunteers, 18 years old, just writing a letter home to describe what he was seeing on the field.

And he wrote that beautifully. It should stun you.

And I've read many letters like that by the way. Actually, I hate to throw him any credit because now he is just an outright activist.

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