12. The Silence Is Tragic

The silence is tragic and soul-destroying. It’s like reading Henry James.

Where are all the thieves? They have sprouted wings of your creation and flown. Now they soar while you trudge. The moral? Don’t give. Make yourself available for exploitation and rail against the exploiters. Then blame yourself.

It’s your fault the poison burns. Your fault the children are afraid. Your fault the birthing mother growls. Your fault the bullets tear open the bellies of the innocent. Your fault the revelers tickle the genitals of complacency. Your fault the sun sets and plunges the world into darkness.

I’ve taken steps, like anyone else, but I don’t expect you to know. If I can wring a squeak from this damp rag of souls, there will be food in the morning. Oh, glorious morning! It’s for the sunrise that we strive. Vitamin D and essential parts of this balanced breakfast. When I was young, I stared at the sun. I can’t do it anymore.

Can you make a difference? Of course. Ask the fuckers who are stealing your wings. Never mind; it won’t last. Even immortality dies eventually. Swipe what comfort you can, cram it into your pockets, and make for the door. It’s not your fault.

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