All I can think of is the emaciated bodies of the children on our kitchen table as my mother prescribes what the parents can’t give. More food. Now that we’re rich, she’ll send some home with them. But often in the old days, there was nothing to give and the child was past saving, anyway. And here in the Capital they’re vomiting for the pleasure of filling their bellies again and and again. Not from illness of body or mind, not from spoiled food. It’s what everyone does at a party. Expected. Part of the fun.
(Source: genuhsiis, via laugh-love-dream-achieve)