"Can I have some help?" You say, bowing your head in shame.
The two of you stand still for a minute, staring at one another. Then, out of the blue, you run to her window and punch it out. Blood and glass cover your arm as you frantically clear the glass with your flesh.
"I don't you." You say, telling the truth. You really don't know what you're doing and why you weren't given a choice. It's like you're being controlled by some higher, though lazy, power, and that power has run out of ideas.
Once the glass is gone, you wave goodbye to Zoey with your broken hand, and then jump out to the pavement below.
You can realize that you’ve wasted the last few moments of youth at an occupation you hate or fool yourself into a numb compliance with one of these great excuses.
You've heard of #BlackLivesMatter and #AllLivesMatter, but the ancient voice of a mountain offers us the hardest truth of all: #NoLivesMatter. And also some opinions about immigrants.
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