Nights like this I wonder about the audacity of hope. Forget hope, just the audacity of outrage. The audacity of believing we have a choice to change which direction gravity pulls. Flirting with all these ideas of justice seems laughable when the odds are dictated by forces as old as the hills.

The rancid smell of power is the same ever day of the week. Power intoxicates just like any other substance. I never rant at a cigarette. I don't believe I can change the momentum of seasons or the taste of tears. I am not outraged by the bite of a dog. Structure operates in favour of power. But of course. Hierarchy is hierarchical. 

And yet...here I am beating my invisible fists against great, big iron gates which loom overhead menacing, mocking, jeering, amused by my insect-sized antics. 

No matter what dreams we dream we wake up to nightmares. Nightmares filled not only of gruesome honour killings and broken beggar babies at traffic lights, but of the single watchman sitting on a stool with vacant eyes as hours slip by unmarked. 

Nights like this I wish I was blind to the form of the beast.