As I saunter, crashing upon the shingle beach of meanness, hate, and malevolence; I reach out. I reach out for help, for four fingers to caress my chaffed hand. Standing solitary amidst the mob, my mid boils over in unrest – how could the world not hear my tunes?
How could no one see the truth? Which lane did Humanity leave its Human in?
What child will I name, with what name? What name for the world to drag down?
I reach out. I reach out for us.
I find but the gusty wind, and the silence of rejection.
Prose: Madame Meow