we are all miserable things
we all pretend we have freedom. sitting quietly on the train, wearing clothes in the summer heat, waiting in lines, marrying, replying to a ‘how are you?’ from a stranger with a variant of ‘good, thanks’ and maybe a line about the weather.
but real freedom, the freedom that only truly exists to the mentally incapable who are too lost in their own worlds to be caged by ours, will always rush through our hands like sea and sand.