Stolen

It is much like having a thief chase you down the street, knowing that eventually you'll run out of road and have to face something inevitable. But in the haste of running, we so often overlook the tiny alleys we could have dodged into, thus saving us that fate. We would have noticed them, had we taken little more than 2 seconds worth of time to be logical, rational, unemotional.

But we don't do we?

And so we keep running, down the street, on and on, until he catches up with us. And then he robs us of many things that we hold dear, taking as he will. After all, anger is a relentless pursuer, one that will not give up until he has had his fill; and he is certainly one who knows how to get it.

Hate is a strong word.

I hate fallouts.