Snippets 135b

What are we but broken and flawed souls dumped into a squalid existence without the right to know why?

How can we ever make anything good of such a world?

All we can do is be grateful we appeared in a place and time that exhausted itself of the worst murderous excesses and take pity on those who did not.

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There’s nothing benign in this.

Deep in every soul are the words “Fuck you, I’m alright.”

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Heaven is an invention

of people who thought it noble

to deceive the vulnerable and sick.

It must be crawling with them.

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But it could be worse, hey?

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What's the best way out of here?

You could do worse than take the airport road:

Past the shops and the courts, past the caravan sales, over the motorway, out through the villages, right at the lights, watch for the heroes on blind bends, into the right hand lane, long term parking (dump it there), don't bother dropping anything in, take a burger, buy a paper, get in the queue and strap yourself into your favourite seat, watch the wingtip fly and close your eyes.

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Do you think we'll sleep?

I doubt it now.

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Who do you blame?

I don't blame anyone, it's how we are.

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What should we do?

Help anyone who cannot help themselves.