The Way of The World

A little man presses his hand against the walls of a cranial window and watches outside. He sees houses passing by, customers, family, school, earth, sun, and whatever time and space lies behind the statue that he resides in. Inside his abode is a penthouse suite in which a turbulent weather pattern exists. This ecosystem is usually without a climate, and the occupants and objects lay in the wake of a rolling thunderstorm caused by a Sunny, spring day. They drink their coffee and smoke their cigarettes in wooden chairs, with their arms resting on the ledge, pressing against the glass. They are really mere fleshy, jelly-like entities that based what they are supposed to be perceived on the people they've observed in motions with the giant.

And that is what we are. We are nothing but fleshy, abstract things whose perception is cased within our small world. What is the universe supposed to do, put a pistol against its head and go “POP.” And then whatever the hell the universe is caged within will follow, and that will be “the way of the world.”