I was on my way to a great restaurant/art gallery/concert venue/artist collective with some friends a couple of weeks ago. On the way, we passed through one of the most populated junctions in a shady part of town. While transferring trains, we ascended the stairs past bloodied paper towels, rubber gloves, and needles. I’d never seen heroin paraphernalia before. I hardly knew what I had seen, just a blur of loneliness. The next day, I saw an older woman babbling and laughing to herself in the metro. She proceeded to spit half-chewed pecans out of her mouth and put them back into her pocket. She then pulled out another crust piece of pecan tart from her shabby coat. She was starving for many things. I felt my eyes watering beneath the florescent lights. When I got out at the next stop, I almost started to run. My mouth went sour. I wanted to vomit, I wanted to scream. I asked why. I felt powerless. In population statistics, they don’t take account of those dead among the living. There is no peace, even in a place that hasn’t seen war since Hitler died. God, hold their hearts in Your hand.
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