Some day, bacon won’t taste like salt and sweet juice but brutality and gore. We cringe at blood spilled, a splinter or hangnail, and yet want our steak rare. I’m no different than you, and I wish you’d see that. I have loved you all my life, when the womb was a treasure chest, the world a fish bowl. Truman, don’t you see? You chose oatmeal over The Matrix, and you are the only one. We all get drunk to see the sun, there’s no way else to see it shine. I live in a box, it’s cardboard on the outside, hard wood on the inside, and when I set myself free, I close my eyes, meditate, and yet I don’t know. When I try to think of nothing, I say YHWH, breathe the words through my nostrils, and I still think of rivers. My brain is always chasing, taking control of twisted limbs. I must take your pain and make it my own. My shoulders are aching, I can’t afford the adjustment. Each knot is full of the lost blood of strangers. I am not a Giver, I take pills and espresso and barbecued ribs. I deserve no pity, but when three men hug on an escalator on a prank comedy television show, I laugh for the sake of the wind in the trees. We all see color, and I am glad.