He would have to settle for an unmarked grave, if you could call it that, and his bleached white bones, stripped clean by wild dogs in a dry riverbed on the outskirts of Kabul, not unlike the one he
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The American dream. The human dream. Like a phoenix rising from a 9 to 5 to become a name even your parents recognize. Night shifts are swapped for night clubs and auto payments for autographs. We obsess over those who reach this goal and paint them the perfect life. It's not long before the emptiness- the same one that plagues the poor and mundane- leaks through the cracks of their perfect life for the world to view like a film. For some reason, our goal doesn't change. We still reach for a broken dream.