This time

I'm sitting on Madison Ave, in one of those metal frame chairs, sort of once contemporary, all half industrial grating, half smooth curves and square angles, and looking at a man in an M3 stop obligingly at a light, put his left hand to his mouth, and go to town on his fingernails.
I wonder what fucked him up. I wonder what drives this impulse, or what others could have said to make him so nail hungry. Or maybe its purely intentional. He has no time for clippers and also believes in fulfilling the efficiency potential of the human body, a real spiritualist.

Who cares? I like seeing train wrecks in slow motion now. Almost a much as I delight in seeing cities built. Watching people fuck up on the grand scale humors me. Not much else can conjure a sincere snicker. But another part of me condemns that joy and seeks to spite it by helping others selflessly. Am I crazy now?
That whole bequeathal and receipt of a thing being a choice we make on the daily--even if not subconsciously-- borders on megalomania. And I feel like I'm entirely too conscientious of the effect of my gifts or bequeathals in my universe. The more I see things affected by me go wrong, the more I retract my influence from its system.

But this flies in the face of being always giving. There can be no good influence without an influence. How easily I can wield my actions to align with the actuality of their consequences is still a mystery I aim to solve, but in lieu of being again the fool, do not expect to.

The balance of good and bad is too cliche and also too complicated to discuss.
Lates.