She sat alone on a silver steeple, high above a building banished to the realms of unwanted tomorrow, where the city about was ruined rust and the ground itself was whipping clouds. A harmonica went silently to her lips, but she did not play.
Because, Honey, because. Because your car and flat and your modest CD, and the more impressive legacy you're waiting on from Mama and Pops; because your car and convenience and the quaint little dog park; because your club and your toilet and your expectations and your healthy freedom...because, Honey, because those things are Omidyar, compared to some starving kid who just saw his sister get raped by the coalition. Because you're even richer than that person than Omidyar is as to you.
Because your influence and power over the world is, next to that kid, greater than Omidyar's as to you. Your crimes, my love, are the same as his crimes. A little bit of casual ignorance; a little bit of profitable rabble-rousing; a little bit of shaking your fist and slapping dat ass and letting the chips fall where they may.
You call 'em like you see 'em. You want to be interested and interesting, never boring or bored, and you don't tolerate topics you already consider closed. You're used to being praised by people who think the way you do, and so what if you're a billionaire from one perspective, because you don't run the world, and neither does Omidyar. When you look into that little kid's sunken eyes, a minute before the drone finds the house next door and litters his ravaged face with more plaster collaterals, are you at peace with your history of verbally confronting power? Because, Honey--because that's all the other ones are doing, too. They're hypocrites, and so are we. What makes it better? Let he who is without sin cast the first drone. Or did it already happen?
The clouds were orange as rust and the air above them empty as last summer's dead gnats on the windowsill. It was a husk of a future; a husk of today. The harmonica didn't play anymore, because it was like all things here: an empty casing, suitable for echoing the sounds of breath, but not for turning them into notes. There was no more music worth playing, anyway, in the land of broken tomorrows. Only voices, talking without faces; talking of a tomorrow that had come last week, someone said, in a different form than anyone had expected. Sometimes, looking down, she wasn't even sure it was a wasteland anymore. Maybe the colors just change a lil'. Maybe it was two dogs down the street from everyone's fantasy.
Kiss kiss, Honey. Kiss kiss.