Consider: The plane of glass, the dusty, stretched, molten sea life flattened to one dimension outside of the narrow band of your visible construct. The bees, the hornets, the wasps, the honeysuckle, the lily, the leap, the prey, the victory, the offset, placed by eager men from before-times, caps and lunch-pails from what you can see in other flattened memories, or digitally crested in splashes of black and white, my friends. Don’t let me bring you down, I don’t make this. What creation is industrial? What faucet gives us copies of water? Welcome to the times, the random dictated clocks pinging Dr. Soul, bringing the scythe to your morality, bedding you among flowers of eternity.
Woe to the tides, someone assures me. I say, let them rise! Fight against the air sheathes, the envelopes of atmosphere, sucked into the center, blocked by your existence. Fight back! Push these monsters to the wayside, let them find their humble rest! You are not their fault, and in the end, where are you going? The moon? The moon is so dry, you have made your claim sincere, to I.
Nature is a cruel mistress, someone cries to me. They weep, they bellow, I grab their skull, I hold and cradle them so, I sweep their tears and comfort them with words such as “Rest assuredly. Weep no longer, fear no longer, I will avenge thee, I will bring about the order amidst the chaos, I will stave off the horrors, and exclaim with my mighty hammer, ‘Be at peace!’ I will quiet the waves, I will steal the secrets for my soul.”