Pathos and Puns, Feeling for Heartache Beneath a Suit of Amore

I had learned not to take gravity lightly; even before the apple fell, it weighed heavily on my
mind. I knew the first couple hadn’t floated around Eden like cosmonauts in the International
Space Station, but I wondered how they came down to Earth. Without a DJ, or for that matter
even an AM radio station, I doubted they really knew how to get down. To boogie, I mean, from the Sierra Leone term bogi. One can only speculate – but with two you can boogie, or at least try to tango.

Rapacious modern man, for whom everything must be mined, made mine, that is my’nd, not
yours, don’t mind. Just take your pick. Your shovel. And clean up the mess. And yet the space
within a circle is lonelier than that within a cage. A beast at home in the moonlight, when night
birds call through the bars, and the god left in the body doubts its wisdom.

It is a lonely thief who breaks into a poor man’s house. Unable to detach from detachment itself. They share a crust of bread, close the broken window, and count the shards of moonlight on the floor.

And thus it is that we, descendants of a deeper love of life, draw circles just to make a point. So sure we no each yes and by enlightened negativity can, once and for all, undress the final
question: Why?

Indeed the final question – but not the last letter of the Law. That zigzag symbol of sound
silenced to its maker’s ear. Sleep. The final promise. Kept.