Nothing is open but the perception of time and liquor stores. It’s dark and you’re alone. As the sky lights up, we are all reminded of something different. Foreign settlers reclaiming it’s freedom on stolen land, and your ancestors backlash from it. The thunderous red and blue followed by white smoke. It’s not 1776, freedom has yet to ring. But the cannons still pierce the cumulus clouds and pinch the ears of retired army vets. What makes these people stare at sounds and colors and what makes me stare at you instead. If only television was broadcasted against the sky maybe we would come outside more. I wish to pick your brain as easy as it is to eat the same cancer that I watched being propagated. I want to help you fight the demons and eat away your pain. But I have yet to digest my own being. I belong to nothing, not even your grace.