Rage My throat was sore, I couldn't talk. His life was derailing, he wanted to scream.

I picked him up from his house, where he was waiting outside on the porch. It was already late into the night and the city was quiet. I drove through the streets in no particular direction, going straight through green lights and turning when they were red. He said everything that was on his mind and raised his voice when the frustration was too overwhelming. Problems with work, problems with relationships, problems with living; all coming out with a volume some might find unnerving. I didn't mind. I knew then, just as I know now, that sometimes it's not what you're saying or how you're saying it, but that you're saying it at all.

I didn't offer him any advice because I had none to give. And even if I had, it wasn't what he wanted. All he needed was an audience, silent during the performance but present for the applause, because from time to time we all just need to scream.  ¶ 8:57 AM