A prayer.
A prayer.

There must be some kind of way outta here
Said the joker to the thief
There’s too much confusion
I can’t get no relief
Business men, they drink my wine
Plowman dig my earth
None were level on the mind
Nobody up at his word
Hey, hey
No reason to get excited
The thief he kindly spoke
There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke
But, uh, but you and I, we’ve been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us stop talkin’ falsely now
The hour’s getting late, hey
All along the watchtower
Princes kept the view
While all the women came and went
Barefoot servants, too
Outside in the cold distance
A wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching
And the wind began to howl

“All Along the Watchtower” — Bob Dylan & Jimi Hendrix

Yesterday was a rough day in what has already been a year of rough days. We awoke to the never-ending beeping of the Associated Press i-Phone app. That’s the only app I let alert me. The news was horrible. Twenty dead. A mass shooting. Again. A little while later. The number grew to fifty. The day really and truly sucked. This song came into my head and wouldn’t let go. Dylan said it better than I ever could.

“Let us stop talking’ falsely now, the hour is getting late.”

Rest in peace. Fifty.

Prayers for the 53 wounded. For Orlando. For Florida. And, all the rest of us.