The space is small, like a crack in a concrete wall, this space between good and evil, the thin wavering line of human will. Good to some, not to others. Silver and hard, grey as wood ash, the grey line, the grey area. Depends which side of the line you’re on. We are safe from the truth of it. Vague images behind the shield of our TV. The suffering cannot really be happening. The dead and bleeding children, their mothers bleeding eyes. The resistors gutted like a fish. How is it we turn away, do nothing, except turn the television off. They kill you without conscience. Victors get to make up the stories in the night land. This should be our constant pain, but we are numb to it, our denial is real, we are absent. Truth lays hidden beneath the butchered carcasses of the children. Reality hides purposely behind the shield of politics and money, sheltered from the shame.

The insanity lives on both sides of the line

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