All I Can't Do Is Write About ItMature

The general bullshit of everyday life rains down on me, making my feet wet, clothes sodden and my glasses are rendered useless as the drops cover them, making it impossible to see what is really going on. The middle-aged couple sit at home and watch the latest panorama program on the BBC, it's about racial violence. As they watch, they comment on how it's good that people are finally doing something about it, spreading the word and how they, themselves, would react in certain situations and how they, themselves, would sort out the current problems. They sleep well that night, feeling content that they understand the youth culture and even more so that their heart would be as light as a feather in front of Anubis when the curtain falls down after their swan song. I have a shower and question my cynicism, perhaps I should judge intentions rather than consequences. The bastard voice in my head reminds me that intentions are hard to see, especially when it rains so much. The rock star who just became the patron of the latest trendy charity climbs on his horse. He's explaining to his band, or those who are still listening, and the groupies, who appear to be able to hang on each slimy word he liberates but probably are wondering that if they do a line at lunchtime they might be able to cut out 2 meals a day instead of 1. He explains how he's doing his bit, how there are other demigods out there who are isolating themselves from reality, who aren't on the front line and who aren't on the cover of NME. After his rant, he sits outside, looking at the Devonshire moors where two sheep might be suffering from poverty. Or perhaps not...

The End

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