Falling-alone

The condition is one of continuous falling, down, down, down. The legs lift off the pavement and into the air. The people on the roof, the men in black suits slowly fly away. The beautiful girl looking out at you falls behind the roofs edge. You look up at the sky and see it so blue. The crows fly amongst the clouds. The building's windows move by so quickly, creating a constant mirror of a fading you. Your jacket ruffles in the wind and you see your hair before your eyes. You smile. You hear the city below, growing louder and louder. You wonder what will come next as your stomach sinks deeper with every passing second.

Then, at the noisiest moment, all becomes quiet. Your small porthole that looks out into the world grows smaller and smaller. You mind travels carrying with it, so shortly, the picture of that girl. Then all is black.

-I see this over and over again in my mind. Very rarely will I speak subjectively in this volume. Yet I cannot stop my self from imparting to you the continuous falling. The image that never leaves, of everything going away so quickly and in so beautiful a way. Perhaps it's that I feel life is sometimes already played out for me and, though it is so intensely breathtaking in its incarnations, the being incarnated is often the same disappointment.

The Writer knows well the horrors of life and he dares express them only when they can no longer be contained. This is the dreaded nature of the craft.