Comes to pass my picture of the Middle East (one minute and twenty one seconds of television news, much less than I had thought) is an inaccurate representation of people and the individuality of their experience.
How does one measure the merit of I am offended?
If all I know are snapshots, misdirecting the issue, changing path to digest murdered cartoonists killed with Allah in mind (another misdirection) and I am not outraged.
Sadness manifests as thick fog blocking artificial light, splitting the rays, opening up and flexing, the truth as is, the sole truth we must attain; we are slow, dying creatures. Inborn freedoms dissolve.
Did Salman Rushdie beg forgiveness for images of his head book-ending a spear, or did he die a little in secret?
Suppose I am a rouser marching the streets of New York City, a gold pendant of two falling towers adorning my chest-cave, Je Suis etched into my forehead (black felt-tip).
Do you defend me? Relish in your torment of words?
Will you bury the fire in your belly for sake of freedom?
Dedicated to Dr. Clifford-Napoleone, for teaching me no reality rises above any other.