I don’t want your advice I don’t want your support I don’t need your help. You ask what I want I don’t oblige Your kindness is much appreciated, Like seeds to a struggling farmer, But there is a line Between your reality and that of mine
Fierce Eye of Blinded Justice Mac Bobo '23 The screeching of a hawk overhead permeated the thick, muggy air, startling me back into reality. My lips, cracked and bloody, throbbed with pain; my throat was as dry and battered as the jagged rock I was sitting up against. The heavy breeze shaped the movement of the sands like an invisible hand. The sun, an idol sitting atop its golden seat of judgment in the sky, beat down on my face and the dust around me, making no distinction between the two. I reached down and placed my nger on my side. My body convulsed, and I involuntarily let out a loud, pain- lled groan, as my nger met warm esh. The noise broke the omnipresent silence of the Texas canyon. Don’t look. It’ll only make it worse, I thought. My vision started to blur, and the world was spinning uncontrollably. I closed my eyes, hoping it would just go away. — I’m working past sunset for the third time this week. Several more unexpected requests have come in, and I refuse to put out an imperfect piece just to go home early. It’s just a busy week, I tell myself. She’ll forget all about it next week. I get to work sanding down the last of the tables. The rough sandpaper grinds into the grain of the wood, producing dust that jumps into the dark air, illuminated by the nearby lamp. I grab the brush resting on the ground and dip the bristles into the viscous varnish and
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slap it onto the table, turning the nearly-white wood into a sullen, dark brown. Once the whole table is
