"If we can send a man to the moon, surely we can put a man in a room"
And i nod; shedding a tear. And take these words to turn into this post of mine, like fleeting liquid thoughts contain some worth, like letting paint sink deep and sting might change this town, change these men. But it won't. I sit here and contemplate, whilst space expands to man-made hands, and men still lay upon the street. A tear is no drink to thirsty lips. My mind houses thoughts, but can't house souls. And space it grows with schemes and plans. And we love this thought. We quote this notion. As if somehow that's the same as loving a real person. We propose schemes. And love our dreams. We think the state should change their ways: stop sending men up to the moon. We say. As we eat our tea on comfy sofas; pop to the shop for some milk & don't even notice the man half dead upon the street.
Quit speaking words that are just heard. This air pulsates the rhythm of our speech. Yet words that cease to take form in flesh, are words alone.
