Judge not lest ye be judged.
So it is that here I lie, agony of heart, the awful melancholy of harm to our fellow man. Have not we all, in some way or another, taken the form of another and transformed it into our own creation? This, from a mere facade, a two-dimensional and limited representation. For how well can one know of any other - whether from mail or person, up close and intent? There are no wormholes or magic missles, no perfume or panaceas to jump through the hoops of the truth of the fact that we are all sperate beings. Wholly, if not holy.
And so it is that I do these deeds, of confusing the facts and faltering on foresight. Not knowing that the people I see are more than others; no, they are not, they are themselves, but more, and for all the seeing I've done there is so much more.
I haven't seen.
Each day I creep forward from within the archer slit I lay. The view gets wider as I cut off my angle, and eventually I know there will no longer be any angle, all angular atrocities of uneven economies having been cut out from my varaciously veranda-like view. This is the dream, anyhow, and someday I hope someone lives it. Until then we are all imperfect, and I'll be trying not to be so goddamned particular.