I think people need housing. And there&#39;s empty buildings, I think people should live in there. If you want to call them squatters, trespassers, hey, I call Wall Street thieves!

I ask now, standing with my scissors among my flowers, Where can the shadow enter? [. . .] I am sick of the body, I am sick of my own craft, industry and cunning, of the unscrupulous ways of the mother who protects, who collects under her jealous eyes at one long table her own children, always her own.

If the world were a bar, America would currently be the angry drunk waving around a loaded gun. Yeah, the other people in the bar may be afraid of him, but they sure as hell don&#39;t respect him.

Written By Wil Wheaton

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