Sunday, December 23, 2012


The first man was a skydiver.  We don’t know if he thought he was an angel or if he saw resolution in the fall. He jumped because he was hungry.  Hungry for a deepness he consumed.  A void that became a part of himself.  He digested knowledge and lept from paradise for nothing there would ever nourish him again. He fell forever, and he was broken.  Broken from having relinquished the freedom of purest ignorance.  He fell and he fell. And when he could fall no longer.  He dug,  with stone. When he was deep enough, he peered up from the darkness he had built. And when he had become familiar with the opaqueness, the obscurity of decent. He pondered this hole, the deepest hole, observing its completeness. Its totality. This hollowed core of insatiabe craving.  He looked up and imagined peace. A place where angels sleep.  And thus skyscrapers were born.  Staircases and ladders ascending to hopelessness. the apices of futility. The very ones from which the last man looped his neck-tie. And returned to skydiving.

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