I have yet to hear people cry about the mosquito flattened on the picnic table. Its decrepit wings bent at unnatural angles and twitching abdomen were the only reminders of its fruitful (not so fruitful?) life. Who was right? Who was wrong? Is there a right? Is there a wrong?

Now what if the mosquito was your 5-year-old son, glasses knocked askew, somehow his cries, rather than mere buzzings, are a lot more stirring to the human heart. Yes, I’ve been told the world is not an eighties styled Pacman game. Yes, I’ve been told the world is unfair. But, god damn it this apple isn’t going to pick itself.

I see visions of Putin in my dreams. He is no longer alive, but still he lives on clawing for air. He is remembering what it was like to be a child in post war St. Petersburg where there was simply no option called retreat. How many more people are like that mosquito, simply clinging on to whatever they know?