And then -right then- he stopped. Seemed only appropriate under the circumstances as he watched the world become unmade, undone, unwoven, falling apart. The coveted Rapture no more than a rupture undoing the illusion of the Whole, of coherence - but none are saved. Turns out it -too- a Fall, an unholy transgression, the unmasking of the horror of Being, hyper-reality, meaning’s infinite regress, and only the polyphonic signs remain, mocking the manic efforts of those who seek singularity. No, but that’s not all, much else remains unsaid -necessarily so; to speak of the rupture is to denounce sanity, to join the Mad, to embrace the broken, the fragmented, the murder of Reality ... but too late, his hands are bloodied. First he fell from His grace, and now he falls from his own, lamenting what’s left ... what is left? Hands of a clock that won’t turn back, visions of what could have been, and a fenced heart – and all to find that nor is his mind free. Ought he will them turn back? Would that much difference make? The foolishness of the gamble whole heartedly conceded, but with so much already lost little option remains, cash out or go for broke; end result seems much the same but the latter offers adventure, revelation, and perhaps –perhaps- redemption, or a measure of salvation. A fence becomes a wall, a wall a tower, and all the less certain shall all become; with a mind so widely scattered all bets now a Hail Mary, but Mary answers few and only sheer blind indifference can heed that beseechment. Besiegement of the worst kind though it be –self inflicted and arbitrary- the ivory tower is not without its charms; not enough to conceal its prison nature to its singular occupant at all times perhaps, but enough to make the bundled etches of five seem decorative. 317. And that is all.
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