these thoughts are unfinished.

dear juvenility, dear senility, dear digestibility,

The heavens have always been reserved for the gods.

Goliath walks on clouds and drops birds like fallen eyelashes. Make a wish children. That white splatter is god-sent, it is good luck.

Civilization is a sprawl. It sits in the stomach. It is heavy and eye-drawing and eye-holding and eye-catching-in-trap. Something about tiny cars and tiny houses and winding roads like veins and telephone wires like arteries is sickening. Compared to the mountains, it is a pebble. Compared to the deserts, it is a grain of sand. Compared to the oceans, it is a drop of salt water.

We look down from the sky and feel powerful. We feel giant and important and too big for our skins. But from the true heavens, the celestial banquet halls, the pews of the congregations of the stars, we are still so small. We are still so insignificant. Time slows the higher we go. One day, we will tumble down. Icarus, that beloved man-child of myth, who has so long won our admiration and pity, is more akin to us than we want to believe. We will not fly too close to the sun! Not like that foolish boy of old! We are wiser now! we protest and lie and spread puffed-up-chests like the newest deadly contagion.

[Enter scene, light on pavement only, voices echoing like rumble of thunder or traffic in city]  How many are infected? / The death toll rises every day. / Let us send our thoughts and prayers. / Yes, let's. [Exit scene, footsteps receding to total silence, sound drawn away with each footfall, only darkness remains]

The sun is always coming closer. Life giver, heat of the world, cold hand of the mother. Its rays reach us with indifference. Man is not meant to fly. And yet, we must. The sun will consume us all one day, all our secrets and memories and decomposed corpses. One great and powerful cremation. Ash we are, I think, a touch of religion in my cold hands even now.