But, Mother, how can _I_ destroy Capitalism? The machine is so big, and I am so small. My siblings stand with me but we are just wheat before the combine. We may die with honour, standing tall; but we will die nonetheless.
Dear sweet child, do not stand in front of the machine, it will just grind you up. Run up behind, quick as a mouse, and climb inside. Nibble the wires. Sand the grease. Slow it that your siblings may join, plucking the cogs, rusting the steel. Until it grinds to a halt.