| Comment | I’ll simplify it for you. Waiting at that bus stop I feel like a piece of meat, a potential source of sustenance, a mark, a target. A step closer to that next elusive fix, next sip of alcohol, the next escape. EVERY DAY. Empathy? I have empathy to a point, but until you have a junkie in your face, begging for cash, shaking, half dead and uncomfortably close, following you down the damn street, daily, you have no right to tell me how to feel about them. Would you have me strip naked and give them my worldly belongings? |
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