I recently posted on Instagram, “If one of us is burning, we all are on fire,” and three hours later,
Money cannot buy peace of mind. It cannot heal ruptured relationships, or build meaning into a life that has none.
When you live a life supplied with ammunition transmutated from the negative energies, red tape and worldwide, ass-backwards politics—you tend to
A homeless man, woman, boy . . . girl: crack fiends and veterans alike . . . at every stoplight, every intersection. After the first winter I spent working in the frigid downtown harbor cold, I swear my heart sank the distance of the Bur Khalifa in Dubai, and has yet to rise again. The sad part, so much of the city—to no surprise—is so immune to seeing our Homeless that they do not even acknowledge the 14’esque year old boy bundled in a blanket in the old church doorway. The one with the giant floor-to-ceiling red doors, almost at the corner of Charles and Baltimore Street. No one notice the other boy with his head hung low as the light changes again with without a single care for his existence—and if they did they’ve made it their business not to show it.
Act 1, Scene 1 Who prays for your water droplets? Alarm clocks blaring—our sightless hands search the nightstand and windowsill