If capitalism is an old blanket flowing down the back of America, those on America’s shoulders think it’s warm and comforting. Like a tent during a summer rain or a parachute when they’re falling through the clouds. For those at the bottom, the blanket feels like a straight jacket dragging through the mud - stained and patched with ripped corners and loose threads that rise in the middle of the night like Medusa’s snakes. There’s always someone on the top tugging on the blanket, trying to have it all, so we pull with all our strength through the darkest hour of night but the morning never comes. The sun never breaks a hole in the ceiling and our feet always end up a little colder than they were the night before.