the concept of a stomach turning is beautiful. a soft, pink organ being forced by bodily functions to wretch at the thought of something provoked by visualization.

fluids repulsed by each other, mixing into disharmony and forcing one to feel as if they were falling through miles of atmosphere with no possessions to speak of, not even clothes.

the only thing you would have to look forward to is the final impact, but you’re still afraid. why?

as if embarrassed by the occurrence of death and your own mortality, you attempt to climb the air whipping rapidly in all directions around you. no, even that won’t help.

it has peeled the skin raw, so you try to lay flat, this time as if you could slow the process, or perhaps prevent your crash from being fatal somehow.

you’re human, you can only try, and that is as far as you will get. it’s a wasted effort, and no one will remember it. let alone you.

though they may briefly visit the humor and mystery in osmeone falling from such an altitude in the nude.

and that will sum up your life.

cheat [cehat] [ceaht] [ceath] [.eath] death death [deaht] [dehat] [dheat] [.heat] cheat?death? cheat?

the cheat and the cheated,
the cause and the solution.

the end of a line in evolution.
cycles apply

to those who dare not die,

but embrace eternity and elope with life.
as the worms hunger,
they damn themselves by
throwing limbs to the mob.

cry the people, “we can not live like this!”

says the despot, “do your jobs.”

one day all of the rulers will join their people to appease the appetite of the worms.

thank you for convincing me to forget what i had read in convenience to what you told me. now if you can just manipulate gravity, you can learn how to fly. reach for the jet stream in the sky and burn your hands.

snowflakes, skin. charred now, and falling like ash. i see you have an incinerator with fragments of bone inside. they’re yellowed like old library books, and it smells like a catering truck inside.

is this the thousand-dollar-a-plate benefit dinner?