Air Force 1

Today only, I try to think about the world in terms of friends and enemies. Real medieval style settings with men on either side, one set in sheeny white, the other dark. The broken things are always due to this sort of thought. But today, since it is today, is a day for broken things.

A european is liberal, is hospitable, is concerned with his reputation. The englishman is reserved, is a control freak with alcohol, is softly looming over his own countenance. An American is raucous on the inside, is trained in 1st place, is able to step outside himself in ways Europeans think he can't.

The broken things cause me pain. Skin crawly, metabolism shifting, animal sound pain. Weep me down the street. Weep me to a new world. Weep me inside myself. The broken things haunt us all like dead infants, smelling of wasted effort. Weep me like a drum, a stoicism. Waste affords no time to those not dressed in white. Wasted they shall be or wasted we shall weep.

Today is a day to repent, to recant, to thrust my signature hand first into the fire. They will trade cobblestones for my ashes. Cats will scratch my charred and flaking feet. I will say prayers for the broken things as I burn, and scream a wretched mantra at my friends. There are no enemies here. There are no enemies here. There are no enemies here.

And if there are then we are all dressed in black. We are all learning to breathe deeply. We are all learning not to kill our brothers. We are all learning that loss is permanent, that the gross misinterpretations of our fathers must be rewritten and redistributed so that loss can be forgotten. The broken things must be fixed with all effort and stamina and cost, or we will fall for ourselves, and see only white in the mirror.