I live on a street of strangers. I've seen them, but their names? Their lives? Who they really are? I look at them and I don't trust them.
My kids can't leave the yard. 5792 might be a pedophile. 5795 could be a drug addict. 5787 looks like trouble, liars.
I'm surrounded by suspects; each man a potential rapist, the women deranged mothers.
I watch them all, disconnected. I feel alone among them. They aren't people I can care about. So I keep a wary eye on them, and I practice caution. All my online friends think that's smart. They live among strangers, too.
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