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Sometimes, all you can do is run.
Sometimes, it might feel like you've been running all your life.
Somewhere far away, in distant better days, they whisper, though. They have this old notion, around campfires and lanternlights and sunstreaked, sunstroke days:
Perhaps some things are worth dying for.
Perhaps if you plant your feet, find your sense of self and harden your soul against horror, then hatred and malice and simply bad luck and the little betrayals of every day life by every day men and women in all their little ignorant cruelty, all that which is simply life itself will never seem so dark. Perhaps some day, the sun will rise, and if ten mean men mutter twenty bad words, why not still smile just once? Some things are worth dying for all, after all. That's what they say.
Which . . .
