What really matters

...is not
drunken actresses or spoilt rich kids
or even Gonzo go, Gonzo stay.

It's this, in various places on this small blue dot.

Every day.

Why are there not battallions of newspeople over there as witnesses?

It's as if these places dont even exist:
the dead have no names, no faces,
like leaves falling from trees...
dying without a sound.

This really gets to me, now and then.
On the red tourist bus in London last week, we drove by this wholly unremarkable paved island in middle of the road, and our tour guide said in this happy Koolaid voice that this was the spot where the Tyburn Tree once stood, where the public hangings took place in the old days.
So many people suffered horrific deaths on that little piece of earth
and it's neatly paved over now. A little island place where you stand halfway crossing the road... not noticing where you stand, not for one second wondering at what passed there in days gone by.
Just, look right, left, right again and rush across the road.

Pfffff. Like the song said, dust in the wind.

It should not be this easy to kill people.