There is something poignant about a woman in mourning. She cuts a tragic figure. Everywhere she walks, it seems as if she walks not upon that ground, but upon the edge of a fearful cliff, a silhouette of sheer black fabric and shadow against a gray sky.
They tell me to relax. How can I relax when the World is passing me by?
Thinking It's pathetic, really, humanity and its ways, violent, uncouth, fake. Truths are hidden behind engorged half truths, Truths are few and far between and when people started starving we found that though Lies taste bitter they still fill your stomach, so who gives a damn? And honesty- "You make me uncomfortable." "I don't think this is right." "Yes, I did it." "I feel left out." "Can we talk about something else?" -it's all tossed by the Wayside, isn't it. Because who cares if you're Honest so long as you're prettier or sexier or richer? Honesty is the disregarded feast of the poor.
