Last night, I woke up as I do on many nights to a bad dream. A dear friend was trapped in a windowless cell, but he would not see the tunnel afforded him under the bunk of his bed. I tried to show it to him, but I had to confess that looking down the narrow tunnel afforded me no comfort. I woke up with chest pains. Fear for myself and fear for my friend. Do we stay in our cells, because of our fear of the unknown? We choose the hell we know over the unknown? Phillip Morris' column today reminds me of my bad dream.
I remember the first time I witnessed a killing. I was 6. The poor guy had his neck snapped in two. But he was a stubborn brawler. He refused to go down without a loud and bitter ruckus.
Links:
[1] http://www.cleveland.com/news/plaindealer/phillip_morris/index.ssf?/base/opinion/1207211448124580.xml&coll=2&thispage=1