The Man

The man thought he was amoral. The man thought naught could affect him. The man was wrong. The moral perspective is stronger than most think: as strong as a titanium mirror, reflecting in all ugliness. Silence attacks cruelty, like some muting angel, and streaked light shears from above, burning night crawlers. One sense, two sense, three sense, four. Old lessons crop from dry earth. Ethic barren, or so the man thought, within his marble suit. “The bomb is here,” he monologues to his secret self, staring at passive resistance. The man snaps his fingers to hipster tunes, dreading television cameras, awake unharmonious within the most peaceful night. On stage, he is an actor, giving “we the people” what he thinks they want. The man is a professional.