So we sit tight at the feet of nail biters and thieves as the plans are set in stone by the indispensible. We’re under siege. Our lives on hold for spectacle and old routines, consumed by cold war fallacies. You may not know the acts done in your name but on the receiving end they know your prostrations all too well. They can’t be written off as unintended costs or the price to end your outrage. To face facts against doubt, or to make bets as this house burns out. Just the by-products of intentions obscured by conflict. Acts to malign fictitious foes with comforting rubrics. Such comforting rubrics. I guess we’re all just waiting for reality to hit. The unspoken is no less real. The recognition of the enduring struggles that short memories omit. It may take longer for the afflictions to take hold, but in the end you reap what you sow. The unspoken is no less real.