There are men who will beat you to death for fifty cents. Pretend it doesn’t matter. Forget the squashed kitten by the road, the TV images of bodies blown apart, the girl next door who slit her wrists. And the starving boy’s belly drooping to the ground? Make it more manageable. Don’t imagine flies in his nostrils, his ears, the urine smell, bones screaming through skin. Say it’s his karma or God’s will. Build a philosophy to hold it all apart from you. Next time you pass the gap-toothed hag begging for coins, tell yourself she’d just squander it on Ripple. Look in her eyes and say, Sorry, no, I’d like to but I can’t. Keep walking. Don’t look back. Listen to the birds. Read a book. Fall in and out of love. Make money. Grow old.