The Morning Commute

We waited, some more patiently than others of course, for the yawning chasm to open up and swallow us again. The guy next to me, in reference to the presentation of a nearby woman, said, “it doesn’t leave much to the imagination.” Maybe his imagination is not as good as mine. In fact, I’d bet my life it’s not.
When we emerged we were surrounded. Any action other than surrender would have been equal parts foolish and futile. We marched, as those like us always have, through streets and fields and corridors, clinging in desperation to every withering scrap of decency.
Blank faces mock what they can’t understand.
We can supply answers to every question they ask but cannot pretend, even when they are true, that the answers are correct.
In the end there is only one direction: forward.

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