“We have nothing to show for ourselves but a frivolous and
deceitful appearance, honor without virtue, reason without wisdom, and pleasure
without happiness.” —from March, a
graphic novel by John Lewis, et al.
Look at the other
One or tens or 38 million or
50 million or 14 million or 2 million
Or whatever, as they say,
and each one, each singularly
moshing a life and
what do I see, and hear, and smell?
Is it something new and
Pleasant, like a delicious and
Strange meal or nothing,
An indifferent shadow lacking familia?
The shadow falls
And disconnects, as they say.
So strange to be part of
So many disconnections in
A world like mine,
E pluribus animus.
Because there are
So many others, each to
Each and other to other,
What is a person,
What am I, to do?
So much else to do,
Who has the time,
The desire?
