Of People and Profit

Metal falling from the sky. People dead. People wounded. Church-going people. All the good people.

What a terrible thing to have happened. The city decrying it as an atrocity.

That's the thing about people. Too many of them can't admit that they're just a little bit in love with death. The pain of loss, such a sharp and acute reminder of still being in the world. The permission to wallow and drown in that finite misery. You have to take advantage of that while it lasts. All the good-willed attention garnered from being the one still remaining. All the clinging, the crying and everything that goes with it. The relief of dear God, at least it wasn't me. And those that were lost will be saints forever. Exonerated of all worldly sins by virtue of no longer belonging to it.

Of being six feet under it.

Everyone gets their own lead role in the performance of grief. They get off on it. But that isn't proper to admit.

Behind closed doors, they admit it.

They'll be in the market for good food for wakes once the funerals roll around. Should put a special offer on at the shop. Bring in more business. Nice smoked ham for the distraught.