The American is a nomad. A bastard son. A criminal wherever he goes. Cut loose in his own country to wander and wage battle. The parents are merely stand ins and those who raise the child for its life of brutality along the highways and streets of the city where it scrapes along, in search of home. The American, always lost, always homeless. Momentary relief when living abroad. Away from the cold mother America who does not embrace or welcome its own when they come back, never waves goodbye when they leave. Come, go, America never notices. Business class, body bag, it doesn’t matter. The American travels the world looking for home in other countries. Always alone, always American, hell never get it off of him no matter what distance he puts between himself and his crime of birth. The stain can never be removed. The blood never cleansed.

America will always kill its own for better ratings.

— Henry Rollins, Smile, You’re Traveling

Found thanks to redking

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