He’ll come for you just like he came for Garcia. Like he’ll come for me. For our parents and children. Even for the bastards, though he always seems to take his time with them.
Maybe peacefully, quietly, gently. Perhaps in a packed soccer stadium immediately after being declared an enemy of the state. It’s all the same.
The question comes down to your wall. Where do you build it? Garcia built two. One around him, as high as he could? Keep the fuckers out. Keep the light out, too, but worth the bad for the good. Right?
He laid that wall in sturdy and tall and he liked it in there until he didn’t and tried to get out. But he had built it so sturdy and tall.
Garcia had another wall, though. One that didn’t keep anyone out: it broadcasted. It sent his heart out to the horizon and sailed through the air for anyone, anyone at all, to catch and keep or pass on. He built this wall behind him and it was held up with rope and duct tape and fell apart every night, to be erected anew down the road. It required much more energy and upkeep; there were a million reasons not to build that wall.
We will build our walls. Let us choose carefully.
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