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.
Doors may or may not open. We’d relish a look at the other side without going through, a rare and much sought-after mystical optometry.
We live as long as our hearts pump blood and not a minute longer. Science reclaims us when the coast is clear, no movements in the way, no thoughts interrupting, our graceful little motor shot.
Then we move down a new path, maybe without a top or bottom, maybe without sides and in-betweens. There are no maps, though we have spent our lives hearing about the place.