Seems we want to make it all good. Or all bad. Sinner, bad. Saint, good. But it's a jambalaya out here and it's all mixed together in each of us, in all of us, everywhere. The thief lurks in the satin lining of the gift giver's coat. The gift giver redeems themeselves but demands how the gift is used. The thug supports the weak. And later, targets prey. The stories swirl and rumors fly. And there is no end to the lengths we go to get what we need.
And desperation will drive anyone to use a resource to get what they need. No room for the sanctimonius when you're dope sick, or starving for whatever you starve for.
Beneath it all, all of our hearts beat. These eyes tell a story of that ineffable light of life. But look away and it's off the tightrope into a mire.
Anything belched out here is just that. A burp. Some sort of gas trapped that needs an exit. I don't know the way. Just observations from a fragile head of a pin.