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The world is not so big and wide that we do not hit corners and bounce off walls that are sticky with flesh and smell of rotting damp. There are walls, yes, walls, and they reek of flesh because we stroke them--for release?--and call them our own. We hit them with faulty shoulders and rarely follow through: we do not truely want to see what lies beyond.

But I am not being philisophical. That is not my intent. I am not being pessimistic. Surely something light lies beyond, but we fear the unknown, just a dab more than we crave it, and far less than we revere it. We ricochet to destiny like pinballs, only we control the flippers sometimes. You'd deny it. We lie to ourselves, say God is at the helm. God or a god, many gods, goddesses, spirits, or perhaps some malignant thing that means us harm. Some form of devil. Lucifer, maybe, or some other named beast.

The human animal is a jolly thing. Rolling in offal sometimes, squealing like even a pig ought not. Bowing heads other times, in mock reverence to something it cannot see and undoubtably knows not. Lipservice prayer. Or he can be seen, often, holding his head in his hands, sharp with the realization that he is much smaller than he would have wanted to believe. What's my point?

I forgot.