An inch

Looking out the window upon the East River and waiving to my friend in Brooklyn I contemplate the sliver of space that reminds me I'm not drowning in buildings and masses of people.

The water is soothing, even though the boats and helicopters pass at regular intervals. The water reminds me that everything must keep moving or it sinks. A tourist boat passes on its way to the Brooklyn bridge. Arteries upon arteries feeding the muscle of American Business. Are the arteries too clogged with minutiae to sustain this wave of uncertainty?

I passed all the gray businessmen on the way to Wall Street. They slink when they walk like alligators, not like the proud cocks they once were. Are they the key? I'd like to think not, that our being as Americans aren't tied up in the monotony of business. What are we serving as the greatest source of economic and military power? It can all fall like a house of cards and no one wants to acknowledge it.

I'm not really sure why I decided to get gloomy all the sudden, but I feel anxious, even scared that it could all just fall down. I wonder what I've built, what I've done that matters...

For whatever reason my mind is stuck on Valerie's letter in V for Vendetta:

I imagine I'll die quite soon. It is strange that my life should end in such a terrible place. But for three years I had roses and I apologized to nobody. I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish.

Except one.

An inch. It's small and it's fragile and it's the only thing in the world that's worth having. We must never lose it, or sell it, or give it away. We must never let them take it from us.

An inch...sometimes it's all you have and everything you need.