We live in the crook of fortune’s flexible arm, an arm that winds up at a predetermined and rigid hand. We live both sides, both ways, each a tiger, surveying from ripples wound about the tightened stake of natural selection.
We’d love a look at the other side without going through, a rare and much sought-after mystical optometry, but it’s better not knowing.
We live as long as our hearts pump blood and not a minute longer. Science reclaims us when the coast is clear, our little magic motor shot.
Then we exit through the door, move down a new path, maybe without a top or bottom, maybe without sides and in-betweens. There are no maps or manuals, though we have spent our lives hearing about the place.
C.M. Rivers 