Folded Thought of the Day:


    "It's hard to hold the hand of anyone who is 
       reaching for the sky just to surrender"

They tore down the wall.  Just to give the taste of freedom.  
Leaning on the broken bricks, the near-sighted visionary, 
who sees only in black and white, takes his first glimpse 
of the future.  And the tears he sheds are not for him.  

Kept safe all these years in his snowy silence, with only 
the sound of horse hoofs against the frozen ground to mark 
the time.  In his shed with gas lamp and his dreams.  The 
wind whistling through the window like a thought from 
outside his comprehension.  And the pounding leads him 
to the door, to the source of his pain.  

   "Ah you hate to see another tired man lay down his  
   hand like he was giving up the holy game of poker"

The light speeding through the alley that has been clear-cut 
for no clear purpose, hitting him like a snow ball shot from 
a Civil War cannon.  The light painting his face and illuminating 
the years of lost knowledge.  The wisdom of his age.  And the 
freedom fighters are dancing along the borders of his property, 
claiming victory and singing songs in broken unison.  He approaches 
the party with a limp that could be mistaken for false.

  "And while he talks his dreams to sleep you notice there's 
  a highway that is curling up like smoke above his shoulder."

He is offered whisky and processed meat and a jacket to battle 
the falling sun.  And he has no reason to turn down these kind 
offers, but he also has no real reason to accept them.  And 
the revelers tell him all the great things he has to look 
forward to.  It seems he'll never have to do much anymore.  
They tell you what to think, what to watch, what to believe, 
what to read, what to look like.  And he wonders what sort of 
prison he is heading for.  And they tell him it's called progress.  

  "And then taking from his wallet an old schedule of trains, 
     he'll say I told you when I came I was a stranger"

Leading the procession, heading back into the city of tomorrow, 
he walks into a ticker-tape parade.  And he notices the babies 
being held by the wide-eyed mothers.  And he has a terrible 
realization.  Understanding what all this is leading to.  
Looking around and picking up all the clues and all of the 
attempts at covering up.  He is handed a microphone and is 
asked to give a speech.  All he can think to say is a joke 
his father once told him.  But it doesn't go over well.  
Causing quite the commotion.


   "Then he leaves the platform for the sleeping car that's 
   warm you realize, he's only advertising one more shelter 
       And it comes to you, he never was a stranger"


(Quotes are from "Stranger Song" by Leonard Cohen)

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