Expressions of the effects of inner injustice grow on me like graffiti on freshly painted walls in ghettos.
The poor do not sleep so long as we do. The knock of the wind under the door is a notification from the debtors of the day reminding weary souls that even peaceful sleep is a luxury sold at a steep price in the midst of moral recession. The dying breath of the poor sleeper who is neighborhoods away from our evening cove, is drowned out by bedtime stories invented to make enough noise to create a semblance to silence. He who you do not see or hear, not for blurred vision or hardness of hearing, but for blatant blindness and softness of will. For lack of desire to participate in distant misery. You did not see. But friends you have erred and misread our position. His misery is yours and whether or not you see it, it perverts the air you breathe so you will not sleep so well without the gas mask of some toxic medication. Found at the bottom of hallow bottles of gin or prescription pills or indeed underneath sheets where empty souls consecrate a marriage to nothing but perverse and co-modified sexuality. Medicate and numb yourself as much as your frail body can endure, shattered heart can suppress, and aloof mind can rationalize, but know this: until the sleeper finds a warm spot on the concrete to shut his eyes you will remain awake with your eyes closed. Asleep with eyes wide open.