The soul of Seneca cries out from the deep:

“My words! My words! What have you done with my words?! Is this what will become of the wisdom which I have so carefully seated among the fertile plains of eternity? Will my sayings now be slapped upon cheap wares only to be fodder for the very lost souls who I have tried to save? Is this not contrary to the guidance I gave? Will these wares not serve only to inflame the passions of those who are lost? Is this not a deception? I say, slap your own cheap words on a mug. As for me and my words, let them do their own bidding! The blood of my words runs through the streets, and you have taken your greedy fingers and spread some on a bag and called it art. But this is not art, and you are not an artist, so long as you peddle these cheap wares!”