O! Audience. Hear the cries of this life-form. All the world is a soap-box. Strange figures stand over us flinging harangues, calling for us to climb up out of the dust and hold them on high that they might catch sunbeams in their horny hands. They stuff their pockets with this gold and demand yet more.
All the world's a hound, and we are merely flea-bitten. We traverse the emptinesses in a crescent moon made from the pared toe-nails of our prophets. The heavy breath and moaning of inexperienced lovers fills our silken sails, blowing willy-nilly, whither-we-know-not. Maybe our craft will capsize and sink, without reason. Maybe it will run aground and crash through the shell of a shining white egg and we will live out the rest of our days in the land of honey-combs and breast-milk.
I lie before you in such a state as this in hope to find rest. Rowing to the rhythm of a timpani has exhausted me. Lying together we could solidify the foundation on which to erect a tower; a tower to house the beings to come. They could build their own additions. The tower will rise ever upward into the blankness of the future: a pin prick opening the heavens and commerce with the stars.
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