The realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as our own. My own.
Apparently nobody's perfect.
In fact I think perfection is overrated.
We present or rather rep ourselves as something we are not.
Meanwhile all silently living, equal amounts of screwed up.
A bunch of addicts, struggling with our own drugs of choice.
We're just good at hiding it.
Tucking it away, safe, protected from society.
Or is it to protect society from us?
