In these moments, it all feels hopeless. I can't turn on the news without seeing how little the world can ever change. The same wars in the middle east, the same racism in America. And like a common bond that links all cultures, women are treated like cattle throughout the globe.
Oh, Ray, where are you? I can't accept you won't return. How can any of this have meaning if you're gone? Why am I doing any of this? Is it as basic a truth as I'm just a hopelessly broken monster tilting at windmills, a Stephen King-esque Carrie version of Don Quixote?
Some days I wonder more than what I'm doing. Some days I wonder who I am. What have I become. Sitting at my writing desk, I hear whispers of the mad I've sent to the grave. And one clear thought forms in my mind.
I am the butcher of Vegas.