*From the diary of an Epstein victim, whose newborn was taken from her.
What lies at the throbbing, blood-soaked heart of the gut-wrenching Epstein disclosures? Not merely names on flight logs or grainy photos from a private island hellscape. No.
It is the savage, systematic slaughter of innocence itself—the precious, irreplaceable bloom of childhood, trampled, commodified, and discarded by the very men and women the world once hailed as its guardians and titans.
Presidents. Prime ministers. Nobel laureates. Rock-star academics. Billionaire scientists. The globe’s most celebrated philanthropists—smiling in their TED Talks, virtue-signaling from Davos stages—frolicked like devils in the predator’s sandbox. They didn’t just look away. They dove in. They paid for it. They laughed about it. They built empires on the broken bodies of girls whose only crime was being young, trusting, and poor. While the rest of us shielded our children’s eyes from the evening news, these titans of “enlightenment” turned playgrounds into hunting grounds and innocence into currency.
How, then, do we ever regain our moral footing? How do we resurrect the sacred wonder of a child’s unscarred gaze—the laughter that knows no calculation, the trust that has never been betrayed? We stand at the edge of a black abyss, staring down into a moral void so deep it swallows light itself. The files don’t merely document crimes; they indict an entire civilizational collapse. When the elite treat little girls as disposable party favors and abortion clinics as convenient erasers of evidence, the soul of the age is already necrotic.
Is morality retrievable? Is sanity even possible anymore?
Yes—but only if we fall to our knees and rediscover what the great French dramatist, Paul Claudel saw in a blinding flash on Christmas Eve 1886 inside the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris: “the sudden harrowing impression of the innocence and eternal infancy of God.”
That is the antidote. Not another commission, not another hashtag, not another hollow “thoughts and prayers” from the same predators’ enablers. Only the staggering, piercing purity of the Eternal Infant—God Himself wrapped in swaddling clothes, vulnerable, undefiled, infinite tenderness in tiny fists—can burn away this filth. Only the One whose innocence no empire could corrupt, no island could defile, no “philanthropist” could traffic.
The Epstein revelations are a divine alarm clock screaming at a slumbering world: You have worshipped power, pleasure, and prestige while sacrificing your children on the altar of convenience and depopulation. The same machine that groomed girls for Epstein’s clients grooms society to view the unborn as mere tissue, the born as inconveniences, the innocent as collateral damage.
We regain our morality the same way Claudel did—by letting the Magnificat shatter our cynicism, by letting the Eternal Child look us in the eye and ask: What have you done with the little ones I entrusted to you?
The abyss stares back only if we refuse to look up. The sandbox can be cleansed. The predators can be dethroned. Childhood can be guarded again like the holy ground it is.
But first we must choose: Will we keep pretending the emperor has clothes while our children are auctioned off? Or will we cling to the only Innocence strong enough to save us—the harrowing, eternal infancy of God?
The files have spoken.
The question now is whether we still have ears to hear.
