they watch as their fields of crops are rotting under the heavy sun they walked beyond for hours, picking up the plough, starting again under the burning, your burning your tongue on some microwave meal, with it's 3 types of vegetable, pruned tomato, paste of pea, and some equisite onion flavouring. As you pick up the paper to read of the all the loss of money, you still pay the man for it and move away in horror. He still searches for the paper to write upon. The paper to post cheques telling us everything will be alright; and we're still complaining. The king sits upon a wooden chair in the jungle. We arrive as survivors on tour, with only cheap versions of the latest fuji camera. We take pictures of things we can send back home, making clear they had arrived by reading the reciept, pictures that stir emotion. Someone holds a poloroid up to a friend proudly, 'I felt empathy today. I did'. Empathy in terror, believing it was only because the king of the jungle had run out of gold that he sat poised still in a tree-based throne. Poor man, no cushion.
i think, we should chill out with our money, honey, i'm home.
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