To stand up and be a man.
To stand up and be a woman.
I’ve been tired lately, way down deep in the Everybody Gets There.
The stories push at the bars of my mind, but they don’t get out.
I think of them in there, throwing their bodies at the wall,
growing thinner and smaller, their bright radiance worn off in the stew of time.
The Specialness wears off if you wait too long.
“Stew of time,” I stole that from Rex Wilder.
I’m afraid to speak, but I hate myself when I don’t.
How’s that for a Catch-22?