My mother is now dying because her treatment is being blocked from entering. Your donation is her only hope.

It is the responsibility of free men to trust and to celebrate what is constant—birth, struggle, and death are constant, and so is love, though we may not always think so—and to apprehend the nature of change, to be able and willing to change. I speak of change not on the surface but in the depths—change in the sense of renewal. But renewal becomes impossible if one supposes things to be constant that are not—safety, for example, or money, or power. One clings then to chimeras, by which one can only be betrayed, and the entire hope—the entire possibility—of freedom disappears.

Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. I use the word “love” here not merely in the personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace—not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth.

This hospice has been built by charity. The names of the donors displayed for all to see. Charity has allowed the uncaring to appear to care, and is terrible for those dependent on it. Charity is big business. Well, we go along with this, so the rich and powerful who fucked us over once, fuck us over again, and get it both ways. We've always been mistreated. So if anyone gives us the slightest bit of attention, we overreact with our thanks.