People don't have patience for sadness, if not for a fuck or a kill or to laugh. They throw lots of tiny, colorful pills at us. Smile or something, it's a gift. Spin it into a sinew. You frighten off the strangers. Bury it into the voices in the background, all the clanging of glasses and pourmeanothers. Keep it to yourself. Burrow in for winter, for winter's sake. Anything free is hard to swallow; it won't be enough to be rich. People don't have patience for sadness, but they love to watch us break.
Friday, December 14, 2012
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