We float in seas of self-absorption,
We eat, we don plastic armor & mock death.
We are alone inside.
The poor may be with us always,
But must anyone go hungry?
Does it make us better?
"The rider slumps slightly as his horse canters to a happy waltz."
Brontë women went untested. Faulkner men went crazy.
Today we gas ourselves with fumes from the rot of $uccessssssss-
"The Little Match Girl cries into a yellowed kerchief