Looking down from a high perch, there is a black shirt
amidst the endless flow of white collars.
It\'s going against the surging stream confined by
the steel and glass canyons of civilization. If anyone
notices it, it\'s only to shun, to press the shirt down to nothing,
like a stream wearing at a rock. The constant, unrelenting pressure,
that will eventually restore the stream to its “rightful” place.
But the rock in the stream, or the black in the white,
it also wears at the flow, changing it just a little bit.
And each new piece changes the coursing just a bit.
The might of many always overcomes the few,
but the few, those brave and sometimes mighty few,
they can change the channel a little bit each time,
building on the work that has come before. Until in the end,
a new channel will appear, and we all begin to run again,
in the rock and dirt canyons where it all began.
