Shout at me in Passing

I've become an angry man. At some point in the past two years something so unjust and black has happened that it's bittered me completely; drawn every last grain of sweetness from my body and ground it to salt. If you don't believe me you can ask the people who I don't know, they'll tell you the facts. They'll shout them to you in passing, in the dark of night, in the blackness between a pair of street lights. Their cries will echo on forever afterwards, "I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!" rattling through the night sky, drowning out the cries of the wrens and sparrows.
Maybe they're wrong and I'm not an angry man at all. But I hope they aren't. I hope that rather than the thrashing, gibbering senselessness which they exhibit, I hold something else; anything else. I'd rather be cold and angry than as utterly devoid of meaning as the alternative.

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