Fourty seven? Why fourty seven? Hasn’t the man seen enough to wonder why such an awful number must follow him in his years? It is for that reason he precedes every day with a vocal prayer to the seeker who he has not found. Of all the luck this side of the range, it would be his to be associated with such vile numeration. Yet, he still acts for the sake of smuggling and he still throbs for the sake of living.
Biting the tooth that bit him long ago rendered him a sullen man, only wise to his reasons but not wise to his motives. Why wouldn’t the thoughts that pass through his hands in work ever enjoy the sweet drip of orange success? Did he not deserve such a treat? Some would say “No.”
“Fourty seven and a barrel of dead fish. Figures, I’ve never had such a life come to me like this.”
Unfortunately, he still has not come to terms with the fiendish wit of Fate, nor has he yet designed a fallen bridge to ponder.
“Feed me – I am older than I am young, and half again as homely. I have not tasted the life that I deserve.”
His rumbling mind never considers the product of Time and Fate. Although such matrices are believed to be impossibly held in the consciousness of a man, having only gums with which to bite secures no warm feelings of potency.
Swimming among fools, struggling aside friends, the conscious man pains himself and exposes the lot of peoples to his experience with negative feedback. This is not something considered lightly, although any thought at all upon such miserable circumstances qualifies the lesser man for future musings. Superficial differences divide the most sundry of member from the least desirables of outcasts. Such a rift multiplies through time, divides among space, and is inversely proportional to the human condition, which was usually not a problem among social sentries. Mellow dramas of morpheus dreams provide a low level of comfort for high road wanderers, escaping from the exodus of infinitely regressive mumblers. It is at this point that the sole owner of cliched mappings of common ideas falls to the bottom of a topless pit. The flow of unimportance and esoteric buggery can be overwhelming if one is not prepared for another night fall, but salvation is lost only when long faces drop, affecting nearby facades in a negative light. If such a decrease in morale spreads geometrically, the fate of the union is compromised, either by internal agents or external innocence. Enough air heated by the sun and lofty egos may escape their grasps, but will never escape the union. It revolves, resolves, but does not escape the gravity if the great mass, that of the sum of normalized commoners. This force is so great, due to the sheer mass of herd members, that those attempting escape must do so with the will and strength necessary to break the freedom boundary.
Note from an unknown character inside or outside this story:
“It wasn’t often that I sat at this spot. Only when I felt like the common good was at danger would I return. A square inscribed inside a circle, in infinite inscription. Some find it amazing that I am able to transcend dimensions, but I find it ignorant, that they are not aware of their birth right. Freedom, it seems, is only a vague concept of which they do not truly know. Under the sun a new world has begun.”
Editor’s note – written October 2002
