The cracks in the floor lead nowhere. Step on them, don’t step on them. Fight it, you will die trying. Go with it, you will die fighting.
This is not America; justice and truth are words, dreams, nothing. They have no meaning here; they cannot strike a man between the eyes, end his life in a flash of blood and bone and flesh.
Everyday, on another broken street, another broken life, more rivers of blood. Rivers of blood? Fuck Hollywood. This is no film. A dead man’s blood cloys, it clots, it congeals. It sticks and stagnates, it does not flow. Even in death, nothing will escape from here. A man with a hose will wash the the blood into the drains, and the dark heart of the city will keep pumping. Things will not change. Optimism and hope appear in sporadic bursts, but will be shot down, massacred into the dust.
The police are weak. The dealers have the power, everyone knows. Here it is said they have a gun in one pocket, and the police in the other.
The foreigners try to understand, they look in from the outside, and they ask ‘How can we change this? And they say ‘Give money to train more police, more equipment, and go after the criminals’. But the Inspector buys a new house, maybe his wife gets a new watch, some earrings…. They cannot talk, cannot reason with them. These men have no reason. They have smiled at a mother as her child burns, have laughed at a husband while his wife is raped, have grinned as a father is beaten to death in front of his children. If you have nothing to live for, nothing to lose, and fear no man nor the wrath of God, who is your authority? Step on the cracks. Don’t step on the cracks.
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