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I rush forward, driven and drinking, mad and wild.
Every breath of every day, my mind spins and reels and thinks and fumes. Even in supposed relaxation, a thousand tortured thoughts sprint around my head.
Even now, after one moment of relaxation and reflection, instead of enjoying it, I am taking pictures and writing about it.
The clock tocks. People are shot on Frenchmen Street. Cops swarm, making arrests. More arrests fix this, right?
Bigger biceps don't fix this, a faster mile, a brighter smile. Working hard, paying dues, contributing to society.
I feel as weak and sad as I did as a child, bawling my eyes out over the futility of a chess game played between God and Satan. I imagine myself wiser now, but I am not.
Nothing has changed.
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