In suburbia many aspire to brick and tile. Busy and benighted, donning the blindfold of activity
all the long day through.
Each night the citizens retire. Recline. Lift the blindfold for a moment, and then catch…
slant cant, on a screen.
What is this thing called life?
Silence. No, wait, I can hear a noise approaching…
It is a helipcopter.
I can hear its blades cutting the air with powerful precision.
Again and again.
We are living in the developed world, but below the wisdom poverty-line.
And nobody is dropping down a first-world aid package from the craft that is passing in the dark night’s sky above.