All the ways in which we can misconstrue and be misunderstood. Our actions go before us like birds of prey. Our speech falters and fails to circumscribe our motives, the tenderest and darkest parts of us. Our fears have been rooted so desperately into that dark. We cannot know how to identify those things which do not have a face, or a name, whose evil escapes the light of scrutiny and language. How we are all hurting, in an abundance of ways. How our rage lifts up our hearts into our fists, sees scorn in the stranger, flies over the rooftops of our city and down to meet the grainy pavement our knees are kissing. Who is deserving of this human tide, washing its pain into the veins of our neighborhoods. Even the spark of daily irritations boil into a raining river which wants to flood the hollow shelters of privilege, the frivolity and carelessness of its life, and break its brittle, self-serving bones.

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