Saddam

We're running, little hamsters on the hamster wheel. All worshiping at the alter of beauty and health. In skin tight leotards, or running shorts. Muscle tees or sports bras. All moving fast, travelling fleetly, getting nowhere.

And before us are our goals. Pop stars in form fitting dresses shaking their perfect asses to the beat. Rock stars in jeans so tight every curve of every muscle pops the seams. Our gods, our perfection, our unattainable goals.

And next to the screen pumping my eyes with a blond woman naked to the dawn is a picture of a man stepping up to the gallows, bowing his head to the noose.

A picture of a man who might be sleeping, but is really dead. A murderer. A killer. Murdered. Killed. Dead.

And we keep running.