We live just three doors down from the sea of inhumanity, always close to the possibility that we are sixty days away from the dreaded rent increase we can’t possibly pay. There’s always hanging over our heads that sword of Damocles, where the day is coming when we won’t have enough to meet even our meager needs. Clinging to that sliver of luck that separates us from calamity, a fire, or quake, or any catastrophe could send us crashing into that sea of inhumanity. There’s no discretionary slush for us, just one serious illness could await us, and we’ve already weathered our rainy day funds so it’s downhill from here, where we’re only one major car repair from going nowhere. We played the game by your rules, but it was a game of roulette, where for some people to win, others must lose. We live like so many others, with only the kindness of strangers, the generosity of friends, the luck of the draw, month to month, that we still have a place to place our heads. It isn’t that we didn’t try, we placed our chips wisely, we thought. So it’s simply arrogance for you to deny that it’s only just happenstance that you are there, basking in your near-perfect FICO score, while others who worked for nothing more are paddling in the sea of inhumanity. You might feel snug in the nicer part of town, but a firestorm looms just around the bend, undaunted by status or fame, ready to turn everything upside down. In a moment your Paradise could all go to hell. A terminal diagnosis could upend your long-term plans, and that custom-designer kitchen won’t get you one more day. But haven’t you always secretly known, we’re all gonna die anyway, and in the end, it’s not so much your own doing what actually came your way. A toss of the dice, it’s just the way the wind blows today, that some deal with dying surrounded with comfort and care, while others face cancer on a concrete bed, and dying is so much harder that way. Maybe, deep down, you live under the spell that good fortune is earned, and folks living under the tarps of uncertainty, having failed to grab the golden ring, are justly burned. Having a home is a reward that’s earned, not a right, not owed, you say. Making poor choices condemns one to worry about where to poop, and where to bed, and that’s just the way it is. But if you knew that tomorrow you could be one of them, those poor souls you send your henchmen to rouse and arrest, what different decisions would you make today? What would be your priorities if you knew it could just as easily be you, ling in such close proximity to your own sea of inhumanity?