What do the rich care, alive on their boats and up in the air, in the clouds, breathing the atmosphere of capital? We hold their trays for them and watch them feast, anxious for scraps, praying for a high pressure front to overturn their olympian existence, to turn the world inside out.
The one word we failed to use: carnivalesque. Meat party. Now.
Try to relax your triangle of sadness.
"I'm so sorry about that. That was irresponsible."
