In that space between "in" and "out" there is a mess of vitriole. Like puke outside a hall or near a rollercoaster. That happens. It's like the people confronting Beowulf.
Some people comment (i)poor guy(i) or (i)poor people(i) and cruise on by. It's a mark of centeredness to not join in. It's somebody's limit on control of self. It can be an influence. It certainly taints the pool atmosphere.
There was this guy. He'd been in wars before. Had powered himself and others through lacks so devastating there was affect on generations. Suffering so poignant, there was no way to unsee what had happened. The guy often held his tongue, especially when the pitch of commenting gathered itself around the notion of (i)you don't know(i). But the guy would mutter and cuss and be cantankerous with chores and labors. Somebody suggested he should find other work, (i)less stressful(i). Somebody else took it personal if necessary, and asked, "Who the fuck are you negative vibing on?"
The guy chose not to talk to that one. But he told some others, "the enemy".
"But it's peacetime."
"You may think so, but it ain't really."
"Does it help?"
"Does me. So I'm ready."
"Not on my radiostation." The woman zapped the board with the mute button.
"It's not yours bitch."
"I'm done here." The woman's face wasn't literally covered with spit and puke and the nasty bugs that come out of peoples' mouths, but you could see it that way. She took a folder out of a sleek pursey briefcase. "Here's the incoming programming. And you will be bleeped on all that cursing. FYI."
Like the muppet Animal, Howard Stern kept blathering on about superficial stuff on the Rock station even as hijackers were aiming for our buildings. 9112001 wasn't his fault, but airwaves choked with vitriole didn't help that morning.
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