when i was talking with one of the mom's and she said i get so tired i'm always talking about this and i say but then i go back to the kids and the dogs and get refreshed again, but i can't stop thinking about this stuff going on, and trying to understand, i want to see it as a story that i can read and tell and comprehend, and it's unyielding, it's beyond the telling. and then we left it because she had a phone call and we had to go poop. 
now i'm alone i can talk to myself (and anyone who listens in), this history started in genocide and slavery. hate is just business. it's a crushing business. an old ploy that always sells. old business never concluded. i told my friend about the theory of the self-hatred of the black trumpsman and she said it's something else, it's more that that. she talked of scarcity. but i thought that was manufactured like the master race. it's something that makes people want to destroy life. what is it? is it genetic? do we sense our time is running out and are we angry because we fucked it? the fatigue is great, but the work of life continues even as it runs out. fascinated, satisfied in the hive, watching a bee generator of the sun.