It is only when you are sat in an unlit room staring out a window facing west, with nothing to look at but other people's houses, that you realize what people do for people; but at least you do. You think of how children tether themselves to stay in check; how brothers keep silent for the sake of their sisters; how mothers hold themselves late at night, crying for their children; how daughters dishonour their parents; how a son frets over the paranoia of his mother, because knots come undone; how fathers bow their heads in their daughters' favours; how strangers share joy and misery; how lovers sit worlds apart, staring at the sleepless dark, rocking in silent self-consternation.
And you realize we are all the same. You realize it is all the same. We are all broken. Weary. Kind. Good. Hopeful. Lost.