disobedient eagle

December 16, 2012

I.

1. He screams becomes he hates things: “Shit!…Fuck!…Piss!” spoken with care, with feeling, higher & higher, chemically it’s inevitable however, his anger manifests too quickly, though instantly, into hilarity, madness flickers only briefly, staggering he laughs aloud, as if grazed again indirectly by absurdity his despondent outlook softens. How ridiculous, ridiculousness is, out of breath, out of interest, he sits now quietly delirious. Bewildered, crazed, incoherent, without passion what difference would either experience bring? None. Outrage without anger, animosity minus fury, he remains a man naturally equipped, yet not one well-endowed. “Testosterone…bastard.” dissipated hormone, just a whispering left, he reminisces upon an unfruitful atomic history, microscopic in significance, love, adventure, had he’d actually never been anatomically touched, “Not well.” His gaze has moved upward, he spies permanently tinted skies, black reflecting glass, was it early-morning or late-evening, immediately it’s no matter at all, he can’t seem to care less, “Even if i tried.” An artificial breeze has pushed it’s way past, craftily scented, he’s helpless, what a wicked sort of violence a sneeze can be. Watered and purified, his interpretation returns momentarily disencumbered, implanted flowers and trees, he smiles at the adaptability of living things. “Roots.” he daydreams, or perhaps only indistinctly fancies, about what it might be like to belong: picturesque, smooth, he’s not entirely certain, or at all actually prepared, were this exquisite cultivation may lead him. “Into the abyss.” a candid prediction, fictitious yet enchanting, the  flow in-which he’s moved eventually surpasses the realm of his own premonition. “Joy.” broken promises and humiliation, amazement, his tried face accurately depicts the harm brought forth by infinite years of exaggeration.

Youth, captivity, it seems to him, standing, stretching some, trying tirelessly to prompt circulation, spontaneously provoke the mind to dream, and from time to time, this oddity, maybe, may even produce an adequate desire to believe. “Ah consistency.” such a luvly bubble to envision one’s self within; loyalty, strength, truly a hallucinatory design. A deep sigh…in through the nose and out through the mouth. “Quickly through time.” frustration makes him sit, standing once more, his hands are wrung for satisfaction’s sake. “Fluctuation.” cursed duration-sickness, like a fallacious plague, a smidgen of cold-sweat speckles his delicate skin. Dizziness, nausea, it’s an awkward feeling the motion brought forth by idiosyncratic brain-waves. Seated, he focuses rather too desperately upon a passing commuter-train, opaque glass in combination with movement create blur, each standard petrified face appears refurbished with the unobjectionable look of laughter. It’s contagious, he chuckles in spasms for 3 consecutive minutes. Recovering, he’s troubled, speculating whether the air was playing tricks, taking caution, his breaths slow to a more examinable expansion. Short, slow, he breathes with greater consideration. His hands begin to manipulate things, as if liquified, the air, though gurgled, is devoured and studied. “Shit.” it doesn’t come easy, age, he’s accepted, has taken his sharpness, however, he’d hoped the experienced gathered from growing older would of at-least given him the patience to digest something thought interesting. “Shit.” again & again, his impatience has distracted him, a man, to his surprise, stands beside him, smiling politely.

“Evening, Fist.” athletic, sturdy, he fits their reputation perfectly.

“Agent.” he too, perhaps slightly less & less, intimidates. “So it’s evening, then?”

“Yes. The Pathway lights should be flickering on any minute.” he wears the tradition light-grey fatigues, with a sky-blue t-shirt beneath.

“Flicker, you say. Won’t that be interesting.” he recollects, with some trouble, an uncovered tinkling heaven.

“Happens this time everyday, Victor.” his hairless features fail to disguise his sarcasm.

“Everyday, you say. Consistency is important.” he grins wide, his full-beard hides nothing either.

“We were alerted of a disturbance in this immediate area. A man,Victor, fitting your description.”

“My description, you say…”

“Victor!”

“Yes, i’ll admit i made an attempt to disturb, but i fear i lost interest rather fast.”

“Have you nothing better to do, Victor?”

“Perhaps i do. But what’s done is done. ‘Often it’s from disturbance that men discover better things.'”

“Yes, Victor, i’m familiar with Magine. In the end he surrendered.”

“He did, yes, that’s true he did, but your not considering his exposure to the Open-air…O p e n-air! Imagine!”

“I apologize, Victor, i hadn’t considered that.”

“They’d only just begun to comprehend the changes in the air. Spherical then…hell, it was completely accessible to the evolving winds. Surrender was very common.”

“Again i apologize, Victor, it was my mistake. I’m certain i won’t make the same error twice.”

“Your far too young to be certain of anything. Try to remember it was from disturbance that helped you see things a-bit more clearly.”

“I will. Good evening, Agent Fist.”

“I’m retired.”

Open-air, natural breezes and goose-bumps, at a distance of several decades it sounded like a magical place. Standing and stretching, obsessed with keeping his blood flowing, he forgets his previous impatience and begins, continues, his habitual stroll. The Pathway lights, as predicted, begin to flicker, rich with swirling color and esthetic bubbled air, their circular heads resemble the satisfactory-magic of imaginative planets. Adrift, afloat, his thoughts relish upon freedom, lost or hidden, he’s envisioned an outer-space without a ceiling, the distance between him and limitation is grand. The air, for only a second, maybe 2, becomes less complex, almost simple. Passing a favored tree, he nods respectively, tell-tale signs express that it’s dying at an even greater rate than himself. “Salutant mortem!” he slips temporarily away, mentally, physically, unanchored to any visible symptom of life. Loose, perhaps a-little out-of-control, this personal excursion through the vast spare-room of his mind, steadily, slowly, ends. Visually reaching, trembling, he extends an incomplete hand outward towards this kind and unwavering entity, which to him, mimics conceptual speed: movement mentally controllable. In-a-flash, he’s back, women, men and children appear to be everywhere. A deep sigh…in through out through, with great haste he moves. “Easy does-it…calmly.” he’s a great sensitivity to enormous clusters of others; it’s suffocating honestly. “Honestly!” yes there’s no doubt. Appearing like a man condemned to doubt everything, the vast surrounding populace are quick to categorize him as bizarre, abnormal, peculiar and queer. ‘He’s mad alright.’

2. Home, furnished with both vertical and horizontal walls, he’s hasty to strip-off all these constricting clothes. “Nudity!” an ancient truth only read about, though never personally acquired. “Yet!’ the dead again conquer his thoughts. Life, Death, attractions of pure opposites, it’s therapeutically necessary, his eyes begin to tear-up, for him to dream, to conceptualize an entirely made-up world in-which such things as gravity and happiness no longer restrain. “Pain!” he’s motivated towards his miniature bath and shower; thirty seconds of make-believed rainfall. “Wondrous!” the timed mechanism ticks…thirty seconds more to soap-up. “Marvelous!” blasted again with a freezing, high-pressured mist, he screams out with elation. “Perfectly refreshed!” standing butt-naked and dripping-wet, he stares out his single window. Snow-capped mountains and crashing waves, blue skies, forests, it’s nothing like this at all, he’s back to pretending, witnessing again the very 1st flight of an actually eagle fledgling. “Soaring!” it’s quite a luvly sight. “Honestly!” yes there’s no doubt. His memory is immaculate when concerning such beauty as this, weekly, in scheduled events, he’s viewed numerous nature films at the CCE (center for categorized education). Blue-birds to Blue-whales, he prefers this attendance of companionship over little else. “At a distance.” of-course, of-course, camaraderie, though handsome in his mind, can turn rather ugly when touched with his reverence for balance.

Having remained perfectly still, stupefied by vitality, he’s slow to recognize the figure before him. “No it couldn’t be!” eleven-hundred days give or take, he’s at a lost to where all his muscle has gone. “Skin and bones!” his face too is consistent with sickness. “Illness?” looking again, it’s mesmerizing the sheer magnitude of the darkness behind him. “Blankness!” leaning forward, he’s noticed his eyes as well have dissipated in presence. Seeking instant console, he steps briskly to his trusted sofa-chair, an antique some may call-it, once seated a switch is flipped, his body’s out-stretched fully reclined.  As if levitated by magic, he’s immediately at-ease, laying easily convinced that there isn’t any better accomplishment then comfort like this. Thoughts of eating, of drinking, the flash of a pretty face, his mind’s begun to lift-off, quickly, faster & faster, the distance between him and them is expanding, it’s wishful thinking he knows, but still an hour or two of escape from what’s perceived as existing, is vital. Sound, from what he can recall, is the first to go, followed by time then reason, hopes and wishes too, he simply floats, neither happy nor sad, recuperating  atop an understanding astronomical open sea. Touch remains presently intact, his fingertips and toes delicately collide with ocean-water, arctic-chills, a sensation like nothing-else, titillate his spine; though genuinely alive, these specialized currents work tenaciously upon his naked subconscious. As if, as though, a flood of vulnerabilities rush forth, drip by drip, condensation hasn’t any chance, his very soul pours it-self without heed into this accompanying celestial-body. Waves, tidal in size, flip his tiny imitative ship.

“Shit!” utterly conscious, he forces, with great annoyance, to keep himself seated, recognizing, after many many years, that his natural desire to destroy anything will only conclude in his pulling of something important. “Inflexibility!” inside and out, his eyes roll a-little, disheartened he leers at the sheer unoriginality of living. “Borrowed through time.” both pain and pleasure, even memory, had any man actual held a truly primordial thing. “Over & over.” again & again, fluctuation, “There’s no fucking escaping it.” Dizziness, nausea set in, it’s no surprise at all, laughing hysterically now, he knows for certain it’ll pass. “There, you see.” This predictability of the human experience frustrates him to no end. “To no fucking end.” there’s no discrepancy here. Pretending and wishing, hoping, dreaming, that things will someday change…”Hilarity!…It’s fucking madness.” it’s quite clear, to him, that he’s delusional. Sweating profusely, he stands and begins to move around, confident that  friction will eventually cool him down. “Evaporation!” he relishes this accurate concept like millions before. Positive he’d done this exact thing the evening before, he stops. “Really?” now he wasn’t completely sure. Agitated, it’s becomes necessary for him to begin moving once more. Time, as a mere matter of fact, wasn’t at all something he’d been particularly accomplished at. Todays, tomorrows, weak-days, this, from as far back as he can remember, was never a simple question. Sunless days and moonless nights, the chaos that can occur to a life without luminous ventilation is…”Immeasurable!” reflecting again, he peers into a face which seems now to both smile and frown, made perpetually moody, he assumes, by the idle journey.

Adorned in a black robe and black socks, off-white slippers, he sets out. Night-time he likes more, or perhaps just understands slightly better. “It’s the details.” still there, yet hidden, it’s comforting to be bothered by so little. The Pathway lights glow just enough, his pace is taken slow, he’ll be back home sooner or later…”So why rush-it?” there’s wasn’t a single reason to consider. “If only i were in a jungle.” his mind recollects a nature film witnessed some time previous. “Was i just a boy then?” exactly when, he’d no idea. Recalling adolescence, he’s interrupted abruptly by a commanding sound. “A roar of a tiger!” a keepsake he’d never misplace. “Intentionally.” what control, if any, had he. “So very little.” The roar plays again, much closer. His heart instinctively pleads for more. “A rush of blood!” was there anything further addicting…”Fuck!” it’s amazing. This foremost ‘big-cat’, in someplace far far from here, roams unmolested, having regained all it’s superior strength. “In death…” he’d always suspected, “was the place to be.” it’s a harmless fantasy, really, “But anywhere else…” he images on, “would be just as swell.” The impassioned growl is not heard again, his anticipation for it is great, closely mimicking the anxiety often associated with those thought insane. “Crazy?” he thoroughly questions the diagnosis, eventually concluding…”It makes so little difference.” thinking just a moment more, “Perhaps it’ll make me appear…no no no.” instantly bored to death, he immediately breathe deeply…in-through out-through. “What the hell do i care?” his senses now revived, he picks up the sound of someone approaching.

3. “Good-night, Fist.” was it serendipity, or merely routine.

“Agent…” he discovers a bench and sits. “Haven’t we met before…even recently perhaps?”

“Several times.” his looks appear untouched by time, yet something was beating him up. “Having trouble sleeping, Victor?”

“Who’s to say…my troubles are boundless.” he meets the young-man’s eyes, they’re not as dazzling as he’d excepted. “The roof is killing us both, i think.”

“The Crown furnishes protection, otherwise we’d all be exposed to the Open-air. We’ve discussed this before, Victor, just yesterday.”

“Fortunately, yesterday is gone forever, son, it’s tomorrow that’s more plausible. Lets focus.”

“On?”

“On!…What else, on getting the fuck out if here.”

“Your out-of-your-mind, Victor, it’s forbidden. You were once an agent, remember?”

“Vaguely. I do recall tunnels that lead…”

“There restricted. TNT employees only.”

“TNT?”

“Traverse Negotiate Travel-on. Their work is classified, Victor. Even for agents…and x-agents.”

“Oh i’m not at all surprised, it’s only natural for humans to pretend. How does one become a TNT employee?”

“At birth. The truly gifted. Perhaps your pal Magine could of been.”

“No, i doubt it. The truly gifted share their genius, these men are the type, i’d imagine, sell-it to the highest bidder.”

“”We’ve no currency, Victor.”

“Bravado, i’d wager, will do. Men still love to swagger, son. Lets focus.”

“On? There’s simply no-way out, Victor.”

“None?”

“None.”

“None?”

“None…unless you consider the Pollinate tours.”

“You see, i knew if kept pestering…”

“They’re really no more an option. It’s by invite only. Visitors with clout.”

“Prestige, even today it seems words are merely thrown about without…”

“Lets focus, Victor.”

“On?”

“On!…What else, on getting the fuck out of here.”

“I knew there was something i liked about you, agent…Agent?”

“Raw, John Raw.”

“So it’s killing you too John Raw? What a nice ring that has…J o h n R a w.”

“There’s many.”

“Really?”

“Yep. The Agency is in quite a frenzy. You’ve probably noticed the inconsistency of the air lately?”

“Probably.”

“They’re desperate to concoct something that works. The number of disruptions are doubling approximately every 3 months or so.”

“90 days can feel like an eternity when you’ve been imprisoned your entire life-time.”

“It’s getting scary.”

“Well that’s good to hear. And all along i’ve been thinking that nothing would ever happen…fluctuating-times, finally something good has begun turning.”

“What?”

“Fluctuation…it’s no matter. Have any ideas on our escape?”

“Well…You?”

“Perhaps an explosion. We could blow an enormous fucking hole someplace…”

“Ha Ha Ha! Your kidding of coarse?”

“Of coarse, that’s foolishness…I’m kidding…of coarse. Well shit, let me think…what about the CCE, i’m betting they’ve archived blue-prints of the crown during early construction.”

“There’s a small chance, maybe. The Crown’s design is kept totally hush-hush.”

“Totally? A thousand years of incompetence, someone left something behind to find.”

“Ha Ha Ha! A thousand years, Victor, really?”

“A couple hundred?”

“Try around 75. How old do you think you are, Victor?”

“A couple hundred…at-least.”

At birth! in complete darkness, he’s attempted, for an uncountable length of time, to reconstruct something audibly strange. “The truly gifted…” spoken for the ump-teenth time, “their sheer existence…” as far as he could understand, “shouldn’t be…couldn’t be.” no fucking-way. “Open-air!” but it’s far too bizarre. “Far too fucking bizarre!” his emphasis’ felt just, “Feel really fucking great.” he sweats, but isn’t at all bothered by it. “At birth…” newborns, infants, those truly gifted, “where were such necessary-breaths coming from…” in-through out-through, “where?” his pace quickens, however, breath by breath, he soon realizes there simply wasn’t enough quality air for it. “So where?…It sure as-shit wasn’t what i’m breathing.” this obvious truth was troubling. Moments pass away, consequently, with every breath too, his current interest seemed to passively dissipate with them. “It’s trickery!” though slightly confused on what presently concerns him, he’d always a reliable source to blame. “Every single time.” cautious of the air, he holds it momentarily. “Damn-it!” it’s pointless, his need for-it was imminent. Surrounded, he’s at a lost as to what to do next. His thoughts become blurry, though oxygen deprived, he worries less & less. “Gently…” on his knees, he whispers inaudible things…laughter, “Am i!” he wonders aloud. Now flat upon his bare skin, he stares, he assumes, northward, finding nothing but vast nudity…”Truth!” something’s begun to glow, it’s flickering, a white light stables itself atop his azureous complexion…laughter again, “What the hell’s the matter, Victor?” it’s a reflection of himself, only younger. “Victor!…Victor!” his eye-lids feel heavy, “Victor!”

“What the fuck’s the matter?” looking up, his focus interrupts someone new.

“You tell me Victor.” he wears an elephantine grin.

“The air for one thing, John. Help me up…slowly.” up he went, slowly.

“No shit, what about it?” a black robe is tossed lightly from one to another.

“The truly gifted.” loops are tied, set snug.

“The who?”

“Traverse…Negotiate….”

“TNT, what’s on your mind, Victor?”

“Where the fuck…how the fuck…If the air’s shit…”

“Then how?…Open-air!”

“Fucking exactly! It’s our only source for genius.”

“Then the rumors are true…”

“Rumors?”

“Bottled air!”

“Bottled air!”

“It’s been said that Open-air’s bottled and distributed.”

“Well that’s fucking lucrative, i’d wager. How is it that i haven’t heard anything about this?”

“It’s not discussed.”

“Still…it’s so obvious. There was a time when the Obvious was something i knew well.”

“Obvious things fluctuate like everything else, Victor.”

“Not air and water…Truth!”

“Perhaps Open-air and Fresh-water.”

“Fucking exactly. How are these acquired?”

“Like everything else much desired, clout.”

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“I’m discouraged.”

“I can see that, Victor.”

“Think John Raw, think!”

“Well…”

Think!”

“Ok…”

“Think!”

“Perhaps the Fountainhead Grounds. The youth are very persuadable, and generally they’ve a fine stash.”

“Youngsters certainly can be a resourceful lot, can’t they. Good, i’m glad things are progressing.”

“Have you made much head-way at the CCE, Victor?”

“CCE?”

“Blue-prints.”

“The crown…”

“Yes.”

“Should i have?”

“It’s been about 3 days since we spoke of it.”

“Is that all…perhaps today then.”

“It’s closed.”

“Then tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

4. “For goodness sake…” lost within a maze of gibberish, “how mankind loved to take himself serious.” Books, upon shit-tons, theories and hypotheses, he’d his own suspicion as to how long he’s been missing, “For infinity, no less.” Further increments pass, his angry, frustrations, things begin to climax when…’Murdered by Extinction.’ his eyes flash slowly over the title of a forgotten book, atop a lone table. Sitting, he’s careful not to rush too quickly, the rarity, he calculates, to have come across this very author closely measured…”Total annihilation!” such inevitable truth was staggering to him, the obviousness too, made everything feel immediately better. “Tick-tock…” he reads, “I vanished only a second ago.” he smiles, greatly admiring this man’s view on death. He continues, discovering page after page of highlighted passages, selected words and phrases, increasingly annoyed by this, he returns the book flat, cover facing down. “It’s the pressure mounting…” his mind has always interrupted the importance of others as rather frightening stuff, “that’s bothersome.” He’ll admit, “Willingly.” that he’s rather easily distracted, photons and neutrons, “It’s a combination of things really.” Forlorn and perceptive, he’s caught completely off guard: the portrayed face of a Pita-Island tortoise held his attention closely. An inscription read: Farewell, Lonesome George 6-24-12. “The last of his kind!” his throat begins closing-up, tears swell-up a-little. He’s strangely thrilled by this sadness he feels. “I mustn’t kid myself however…” he recites from this previous work, “if i ever fail to weep at the loss of something truly beautiful, then simply, i’ve absolutely no value left.”

Though frozen, sitting rather stiff, he attempts to conceptualize the exact intensity which follows, or so he envisioned, the moment after a species goes extinct. “Think of the phantoms…” he’d a genuine concern, “think of the ghosts.” A severed connection, “Would it merely dangle forever?” his mortality was at stake. Convinced that there was a bond between the Living and the Dead, “A collaboration perhaps.” he’s initially frightened by this thought of having only one. “But it’s foolish…” like an over greased see-saw, his feelings immediately begin to tip the other direction, “to suppose that either is any different from the other.” To sleep, to dream, to wonder, to feel pain, to feel pleasure, it’s far too effortless for him to become lost, totally, as if a fart or a fleck of skin, he’s utterly helpless, the motion associated with flight is irresistibly sweat. Twenty miles high, “And climbing!” his exit is delightful, however, it’s not until now, while staring back upon this 3rd-planet, that he’s able to truly comprehend what means to desert. Sweat-beads instantly freeze atop his face and forehead, their lift-off really stings, in awe he watches as they vanish into the surrounding space. “Like bodacious honey-bees…” he’s amused, entertaining the thought that, “it’s plausible…” his very own dna will perhaps, “it’s certainly fun to pretend.” someday pollinate a supple, awaiting space-rock. At a distance of 30 million lifetimes or so, he can clearly in-picture a tiny microscopic bug, in-motion, innately moving back and forth, though clueless as to were to go next, “Genetically no doubt.”

From a series of dimming lights, he recognizes that it’s time to leave. Out again beneath the same tinted sky, he realizes he’d not achieved a thing, “Not really, unless…” chills induce a minor spasm, “Fuck! outer-space is cold.” Regrettably, “I do feel some-what guilty.” he’d identified a sense of remorse, “From what?” almost immediately after exiting the CCE. Looking about, he questioned, “I highly question…” whether others day-dreamed even 1/4 as much he did. “whether anyone daydreams even a-forth as much as i do.” Unsure as to the reason for repetition, he merely gives a slight head-shake, as if setting things center again. “Wow…” something felt loosened, “that was painful…” he wobbles only a little, “I’m better now.” Continuing-on, he gingerly gives further consideration to the belief that he’d acquired an additional amount of thought lately, it’s weight had become…”Cumbersome…yes, tiresome.” he hadn’t much strength left. “It’s minuscule.” Stopping and starting, he pauses briefly then trips a-bit, now skips-forth quickly as if attempting to pass an imagined competitor. “Escape…” his increased pace,  “my escape, off coarse…” wasn’t quite at full-speed, “Ok Ok…” his knees, pathetically, begin hurting prematurely, “Easy, i’ve a aging-frame.” Sweat no longer freezes, instead, it burns his weary eyes terribly. “As if for pleasure.” Over-heated, paranoid, “And thirsty.” his present condition was teetering-on hideous. “I’m not comfortable at all.” A head-ache, earned upon birth, was throbbing. Straight-ahead, and growing closer an approaching figure took shape.

“Victor, you look rather winded.” his face yearned to disclose something thrilling.

“The air today is shit…total shit.” in-through, out-through.

“Perhaps i’ve something that’ll help…” he held a small carry-on at his side, “Here lets sit.”

“Lets.” how he loved to sit. “How i love to sit!” his head shakes, just a-little.

“Want to guess what’s in the bag, Victor?” his enthusiasm was bubbling.

“Not particularly, John Raw.” he’d not yet fully recovered.

“Open-fucking-air!” it’s a very emotional whisper.

“So the trip payed-off, good for you.” bit by bit, strength was returning.

“It’s breathed mostly for kicks, you believe that shit. Open-air’s a recreational drug.”

“And you’ve got some?”

“Two 1-hour canisters. They fit in the palm of your hand. Grips the kids call them.”

“And the effect? What do they say about that?”

“It varies. Some even say they’re helpless without it, claiming it prompts focus and creativity, while others say it distracts concentration causing angry and frustration. It’s been linked even to a few suicides.”

“It’s addicting i’m sure…’We are all at mercy of mind’s reaction to the wind.’ I think that’s how it went, more or less.”

“Magine.”

“Imagine that…He’d always said that man was so preoccupied with finding out the meaning of life, that he became completely oblivious to his own reaction to it.”

“And it’s the reaction that’s important?”

“The reaction’s all there is. And from what i can tell, without Open-air we become numb. ”

“And life meaningless.”

“Fucking exactly!”

5. Fifthteen minutes in, and still, he’s not entirely convinced. “There’s something happening…” he lays nude, relax and in-recline, “a tingling that’s perhaps new.”  Thirty seconds and 3 more breaths, it’s gentleness is exceptional. His nakedness, in ways easy to explain, unravels further & further: skin-cells, bone and muscle-tissue, he’d a momentarily glimpse to his own disembodiment. “Shit and piss!” an assortment of self-indulgent, which fill him to the brim, dissipate in fabulous winks, “It’s the shortest interval of time i can think of.” Warmth, comfort, his tiny apartment therapeutically glows, lingering odors and shadows, he finds the simple joys of a flickering candle delightful, “Just!” Befittingly entitled ‘fresh-rain’, it’s vibrant scent is quick to stimulate life into the most original parts of his cavernous brain; fire and water, something fundamental was approaching rather speedily. “Fuck me!” spoken correctly, he feels the legitimacy of the expression instantly; truth and honesty, the atmosphere surrounding him has become excited. “Electrified!” an unfamiliar charge of some kind, “It’s startling!” Breathing deeply, he recognizes he’d only fifthteen minutes left, “Pity!” Astonished and amazed, he takes a moment or two to fantasize about the open-sea, space-travel and bare-breasts. “Mountain-peaks!” he’s become totally lost with-in a more natural setting; rivers, streams, he slips a fictitious handful of crisp, cool water. “Fuck that’s good!” make-believed drips trickle from off his bearded chin; earth and rich-soil, a primordial embrace takes place, “Penetration!” Suddenly apathetic and lazy, he falls promptly to sleep.

“What hell is this?” the transition is immediate, the realism immaculate. “Am i actually glowing red?” still unclothed, yet from head to toe, he’s completely caked in harden volcanic-ash, “Like rust.” Feeling as though he’s aged a great deal, he takes a knee to rest, “Just a moment or two.” He’d little concern about the imaginative breaths of air, “It makes no difference…” he possibly was breathing, “whether there’s any quality to it at all.” Secure enough to stand again, he adds an additional bit of strength, slowly turning a full 180, “Holy…Shh…” startled at first, his mind’s eye makes another attempt, “What sort of mountain can touch the sky?” At a distance of 3 miles, “More or less.” he finds the peak’s influence to be planetary, “Naturally.” He gawks helplessly, “An ego of that magnitude…” he’d never comprehended a reverence like this, “is no doubt holy.” Arrogance, nerve, “The sheer determination to move as slowly as you wish.” he hadn’t a single rejection toward the ancient ideology that mountains were thought godly, “Makes absolute, and perfect sense.” The extermination of organized religion, some decades age, too, made a sound impression upon him, “Selling higher-power to the highest bidder, ” his head shakes, “what an adolescent time to be alive.” Then again, his eyes close, “To breath martian air…” perhaps a little too deeply, his head begins to spin, “Atypically.” His vision reappears, the red-planet had vanished, in it’s place was nothing more than black space, “And empty air!” The conclusion wasn’t hard, “I’m home.” welcome.

“Outside?” he’s not at all certain who or what side he’s on anymore. “Whom did belong it to?” the difference isn’t easy to distinct, “Morning or Evening?” These weren’t especially important questions to address seriously, “Then let’s not ask then again…” he feels slightly more, than less, in control than normal, “shall we.” Never-the-less he felt, as his walking pace heightened somewhat, that there was something very, and defiantly, off about the air, “For sure.” Exactly what, his present understanding was simply left to guesses, “Educated, mind you. ” he’d breathed enough to give at-least a proper assumption, “Satisfactory to me anyway.” His instincts tell him it’s never wise to get ahead of yourself, breath slow, don’t rush, “That’s sound advise.” Applying such caution, “Safety 1st.” he’s almost immediately rewarded with thoughts of recognition, “Is this Open-air i’m breathing?” Further aware that greater speed isn’t always best, he begins to slow, and now stands still, allowing his circulatory system to ingest, whatever these breaths consist, more efficiently. “Good…Yes…Better!” his heart and lungs, in unison, help keep the mind’s total capacity feasible, his equilibrium harmonious, “There’s no dizziness at all.” Courage, a foreign spunk of some-kind, was somewhere, someplace in his mind, hinting something, “It’s far too deep to recognize.” Staring about, he identifies an even greater caliber of activity, others similar him, also appear touched by wonder, their expressions give the impression that their brains where actually functioning, “Properly!” Though smitten, he remains wholeheartedly magnetized.

“Victor, i’m glad i found you…” he’s slightly disheveled, sweating profusely, “it seems someone had the exact same idea as you…they blew a fucking enormous hole approximately 9:11:00 ave. Spherical’s going  crazy.”

“Madness was inevitable.” he shifts his position, hoping to catch the freshest air possible, his face is elevated a-little.

“Ha Ha Ha…” immediately understanding his friend’s eagerness, “It’s this way, Victor, your way off.”

“Thank you, John Raw, i’ve never had a good sense-of-direction.” he breaths slow, deeply.

“It’s amazing stuff.”

“Consider yourself fortunate then, where all at the mercy remember?”

“I do, Victor, i do.”

“What do you suppose will happen next?”

“Indubitably more holes. The taste for Open-air won’t be easy to quench.”

“It’s certain to be a genuine experience.”

“Yes.”

“A first for me…not counting birth.”

“Ha Ha Ha! that would be something to remember.”

“And regret.”

“Ha Ha Ha!”

“Your mood seems improved already.”

“It’s amazing stuff!”

“Your going to need to constantly regulate control, i’d imagine Open-air contains very little, if any, sympathy.”

“Where all at the mercy, i’ll remember Victor, don’t worry.”

“Well i won’t hold you to it. Mankind has always been easy prey for the mind.”

“Sure.”

“Individuality is an enticing presumption, John Raw, but once a man believes in nothing more than himself, you’ve a serious problem.”

“Quoting again, Victor?”

“I’d imagine so…none-the-less, pretending complicates things tremendously.”

“Sure.”

“It’s vital you keep the angles of your mind moving. Try not to allow them to rest too long on a single viewpoint.”

“I’ll try.”

“See that you do, John Raw.”

6. He’s become some-what infatuated, “Perhaps even completely.” with this current fluctuation in time. “How incredibly quick…” freshness, fire and conflict, “things can turn…” he sits comfortably upon a bench, breathing Spherical’s spirited air, “can change, then undeniably return.” Stimulation, boredom, insight…ignorance, “It’s simply a matter of balance.” counter- intuitive and common-sense, he, surprisingly, doesn’t feel confused at all. “Odd.” Distant pops, cries for assistance, total commotion, if he’d a interest to witness, was everywhere. “Just give-it 5 minutes.” he’s bewitched by how fast time travels through our minds, “And yet…” an idea of some-kind, has struck, “it’s influence can be so unbelievably slow.” What examples can he share, “Hmm…” his mind isn’t prepared in the slightest, “It’s not surprising. However, this delay will pass.” Tick-tock….”Ah!” an example has unavoidably come, “Take the wound of any affliction, in-a-flash there’s it’s pain, “Och!” a paper-cut or broken-heart, “Fuck!” the hurt is noticeably present, “And yet…” movement of some-kind, has begun, “our belief that it will, positively, heal, often takes weeks, possibly an entire future of wondering.” He’s pleased, “Mostly.” at this example, “Perhaps…” he broods, “War and Peace, would have satisfied me better.” The Pathway lights begin flickering, they pulsate in a way, to him, signify only one significant rhythm or pattern. Their theatrics settle, they steady, brighten, now fade-out completely. “Luvly!” he’s truly impressed at how life will readily confess everything in it’s very last breath before death. “What shall i declare, disclose, divulge about myself?”

“Whore or hypocrite?” thinking it over & over, he’s highly reluctant to concede, wholly, whether mankind has been anything but. “The individual!” it’s a concept he’d always considered hilarious, “Have i really?” from time to time, perhaps only maybe, more than once, “I’m partially doubtful.” Today’s stroll upon the Pathway, isn’t at all similar than any other before, “There are distinguishable differences, i’ll admit.” Both fire and smoke, strong gusts he’s never felt atop his skin, “It is a more favorable sort of friction.” He stops, stilled by the sway of a tree, “What a pleasurable sound that makes.” Pushing-on, he’s immediately accosted from the right, and now from the left, by men in protective-suits, each as obnoxious as the other, proclaiming in a damped voice, the moral hazards consented within the air. He smiles, and reacting like some individual might, he’s quick to yank upon the protruding tubes from their tanks mark ‘handled air’. Laughter has replenished his lungs, “I’ll leave you to it!” he gallops off, as if pricked with a-million-and-one idiosyncrasies at once, it’s an infectious thing, “Sharing an experience.” Thinking back to a time, just prior to the just recent, he sees himself as a one-hundred year old tree, “In fall!” shedding all it’s leaves, “Free!” in spring, to start all over again. He’s slow to recognize what some may call a swagger, “Have i acquired confidence?” Lost in such a fragile abstraction, he trips, falling, kinda hard, “Ah fuck!” smack upon the littered ground.

“Have i gotten what i deserve?” with his ear plastered flush, he listens for a response. Utterly aware, “I believe completely.” he’d no particular place to be, he doesn’t move an inch. “The ground feels rather cool.” from his testicles to his neck, he notices a numbness setting-in. “I haven’t anything better to do.” and so he lays still, though meditating, ruminate or roll, “To moon.” he decides to roll over, “Slowly!” he’s careful not injure something. It’s another black sky, “However…” there’s a lingering haze, “a laziness, like haphazard clouds.” naturally, he thinks of rain, “A hardy downpour, actually.” Floods, tidal-waves, “Let’s get carried away…” a sound and physically fit tsunami, “shall we not.” Drowning, he calculates, “Takes only a few seconds.” then, he concludes, “Your dead.” But, “Shit!” there’s the mystery of death, “What happens now?” Well now there’s silence, “It’s pleasant, at-least.” and doesn’t ask a thing, “There’s that as well.” He considers staying awhile, “Where else have i to go?” it’s a rhetorical question, “That’s not entirely true, i could choose to get up.” and yet, “I don’t.” he does not move at all, “Why not?” he wonders. “Ah…” he makes an eloquent guess, “i haven’t the memory to.” This flowery assumption makes him laugh, “Imagine if i could remember everything!” his stomach’s begun to ache, “My muscles will thank me.” it’s been long thought that it’s the best medicine for the body, “And the soul.” Already half-way to heaven, his interest for salvation lessens some, “Am i in need of rescue?” Ejaculating one last and final chuckle, “Isn’t it someone else’s turn to guess?”

He’s risen, “From the dead no less.” and also come to discover that neither the buses nor trains are functioning. “It’s a dandy of a walk to 9 ave.” in-through out through, “There should be new things to look at…at-least.” He continues somewhat bored, the Pathway straightens and curves, rises then falls, the sights, the sounds, the entire production simply doesn’t thrill him, “As i thought it would.” Stopping to consider it more, “Perhaps it’s all the clutter?” Men, women and children, he’s mesmerized by how much inconsideration there is, “Just because it’s the end, again, doesn’t mean…” he spots a cat in a tree, and smiles, “Fuck me!…” his grin widens, “Is it my viewpoint that’s in disarray?” He nods respectively to the wise feline, who, as far as he can gather, couldn’t care less about him or his moment of enlightenment, and attempts to adjust this cantankerous assessment of the disordered world. “I guess i believed anarchy would be more methodical…anger with structure.” his fantasy isn’t at all like what he sees. “I see idiots…that’s all.” Seizing the first bench he finds, he sits desperately in need of a break, “Let’s catch our breath.” A robust gust of Open-air rushes past, it’s affection is the exact opposite of what he presently needed, “It makes no difference to it whether it blew me over or pick me up.” In-through out through, a hardy sneeze catches him off-guard, the pain is both quick and sharp, “Like a bullet straight into the forehead.” Revisiting the vast solitude of death, he drift quietly off to sleep.

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