As it is often said, money slips through the fingers — through inattention, through the absence of the will to hold, through indifference, through the quiet act of looking away.

 

Here, “money” becomes blood. Not his own of course. Running between his fingers of the indifferent, the escapist,

bound by a responsibility he has chosen.

​

Guilty not for what he has done,

but for what he has refused to do —

as though the harm were carried out by his own hands.