Not for children
1800 My God, a week. It’s only been a week.
The problem is, you do not understand, and never will, and never dared to try.
We made it. Now, we have a house and dog. And now, we have a Christmas tree. And now, we have a brand new Bentley, and, because the neighbors don’t, we got ourselves a yacht! And now, we have the blood and guts and silence of the children on our hands. And now we are the fury of the earth, and that is why we should’ve listened to our children more.
You do not listen, do not understand. But when we die, the children understand. I talk to them, you know. They hear me, and they know that I am saying what they know.
The children kill their sisters and their brothers. The children kill themselves with broken pleasure.
The children kill their mothers. Fathers don’t know better, since they’re out with other girls.
The children kill each other, but they hope that when they go, I’ll still be listening. So when I talk, they listen, and they love to watch me smile as they tell me more.
So, carry on with business on the lake, and build your clinic and your pharmacy, and drive your toy truck up and down the street as children kill each other in the hall.
“What do you say,” the children ask, “when something like this happens?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
I do not know. I’m telling them the truth.