If there was ever a more perfect day in the history of time it isn't one I've heard about.
I can't even trust my own imaginary dog. How much lower can a person get?
but all I could think was in New York that kid would have been stuck in a straitjacket practically from birth and dangled over a tank full of Educational Consultants and Remedial Experts all snapping at his ankles for the next twenty years arguing about his Special Needs and getting paid plenty for it.
The facts of his existence are plain. I know that he will never silence those unspeakable voices. He heard how people killed, and how they died and their voices infected him, coursed through his body, poisoned him. He didn't know how to turn off the noise, or turn the hate back out onto the world like the rest of us. He turned it on himself. You could see that from the scars on him.
I, a late riser, fantasise about getting up every morning at 5 A.M. to fetch the horses in from the fields.
