CAN'T BE HELPED

And here's the part nobody expects me to say: I don't hate them.
Hate would mean they matter that much. What I feel is pity.

Because even if I wanted to help — and some nights I do — I
couldn't. You can't repair a man from outside when the failure
is internal. The rot doesn't sit in his hands, where mine could
reach. It sits in his chest, where no hand reaches. Not mine.
Not anyone's.

So the hand stays offered, the gap stays twenty centimeters,
and the chain keeps broadcasting.