I can’t think about anything but Haiti right now. The images of all those people standing around waiting for help. Asking for clean water. The motionless bodies. Brings up too many bad flashbacks.
Emily sends word.
#477, 1862
No Man can compass a Despair —
As round a Goalless Road
No faster than a Mile at once
The Traveller proceed —Unconscious of the Width —
Unconscious that the Sun
Be setting on His progress —
So accurate the OneAt estimating Pain —
Whose own — has just begun —
His ignorance — the Angel
That pilot Him along —
I wish them angels of mercy. I’m too sad to write anything else.
Emily Every Day 