|As The Crow Flies |
It does appear, at times, that all things make very little sense. These are the times when a man might question his reason for living. It is, after all, true, that in one fluid motion there is the seeming end of the pain of endless error, desire, and clutter of emotion. So dare I consider the final decision, the simplistic and practiced movement. The very thought is a scandal, a phantasm, but who can see but God alone; and who can expiate but the same, and so am I fearfully emboldened. It is an approach toward the precipice by the outrageous thought alone. Is it not the meanderings of a woebegone spirit walking through graveyards, conversing with residents? But, oh, how those long sleepers are to be envied. Deep and silent is their resting place as though they did sleep without dreams. None bothers there. They are removed from all interruption. There, the worm is silent, and the mole sees nothing but his myopic path. There is no waking, and no toll of the bells; there is no pushing through a stupor of mind and body. Also, no one will shake us to our irritation. However, I cannot forbear, so I must say it now; I am dead! You need know nothing more than this, but I must confide that I was never more loved and lauded than now. Never did hearts so yearn for me as those who sit with me now and gaze upon my still features. How perfectly still is my repose. Oh, that I might admire my so perfect pose. So, yes, though I will soon call the worms to their feast, I care for nothing for that. So hurry along you momentary mourners, you strangers, and those who dropped in for a doughnut, or a smoke on the steps. For it is my time you squander. This is, after all, my final exit.