A commuter, not between the city and the village; not between the inane idealism of the classroom and the stifling reality beyond it, which I must do for survival and self respect. I am a commuter between between what I am now and what I would like to be and it is this commuting at lightning speed, at the oddest of hours, that has done havoc to me.

Alas, I cannot be the perfect man who would sacrifice and suffer in the name of truth, of justice, when all the world knows that it is the evil and the grasping who succeed, who flourish, whose tables are laden, whose houses are palaces, although sometimes I aspire to be like him. I am too much a creature of comfort, a victim of my past. Around me the largesse of corruption rises as title of vaunted power, and I am often in the ranks of princes, smelling the perfumes of their offices. I glide in the dank, nocturnal caverns that are their mansions, and gorge on their sumptuous food, and I love it all, envy them even for the ease which they live without remorse, without regret even though they know [I suspect they do] that to get this lofty status, they had to butcher-perhaps not with their own hands-their own hapless countrymen.