Imagine.
His heart has stopped beating. He lies on the ground while you administer chest compressions. These compressions are pumping the blood through his body and keeping him alive. Each compression feeds his cells with renewed momentary life. He is conscience, on his back, staring up at you, surprisingly complacent, if not a little cheerful. He feels good … seemingly unaware that without you, he’d be dead.
Imagine that you’re walking along the sidewalk and you notice a man piling firewood around the perimeter of a lone house on the street. You pause out of curiosity and observe him more closely. He has a jerry can of petrol and begins to remove the cap.
“Hey, what are you doing”?
The man ignores you and begins pouring the gasoline on the flammables around the house.
More urgently, you call out again, “Hey, what are you doing?”
He turns acknowledging your query.
“I’m burning down my house”. He pulls out the deed and shows it to you. It is his house.
I mention that he could sell it instead. He doesn’t care. I mention he could give it away to someone that needs it, or who would love to have it. He doesn’t care. I don’t know him and its none of my business what he chooses to do with his personal property, but it is curious, so I watch.
Now the man begins to carry 2x4 boards to the front door. He has a hammer and nails and fastens them across the door so it can’t be opened. I notice that the ground-level windows are already boarded up. I look up at the upper-level windows to see if they are boarded as well and I see a woman in the window crying and banging on the window with her fists, trying to break it. She seems to be screaming. The sound is muffled from the closed window, but I think I can hear her.
“Help me, help me, help me!”
At this realization that the house has a woman inside, I start yelling at the man.
