Rotting Wildebeest

He fled through the streets, a rotting wildebeest, a disgrace of a creature standing empty and blank on the face of the earth staring upwards in horror and fascination like he had never experienced before. He was looking at what would one day soon be the beginnings of a new place. He was worried for the future, he was concerned with what may happen, what can happen. So many distinct possible failures. So many things to fear in the heat of the night, so many wrong vouchers to be cashed and stamped and signed with a book of appeals, and then he was in a field looking for the grass, the grass field, trying to feel where all the green had gone, he was trying to stand alone, but it was without assurance, so he strode on, found other ways of being and places of going, and as he thought about it, yes there was plenty of good reason to go on living, there was something pure and clean and unavoidable about it, a certain conformity with conservative leanings, helps us be clear that we're not falling into an abyss of non-existence.

As I sit here a mindless robot hoping for salvation, for some kind of truth ideal, for some kind of ultimate answer that is reasonably appealing, as I delve deeper into what might be and always has been, as I move through the dark shadows that play on my face like a vast conspiracy of the soul, like a hindered dragon biting from dark places, evil places, where flesh rots and soars spread like wild-fire across the torso and genitals, where pus shoots from every orifice every moment of your existence, and your skin crawls with bug-toothed worms under your skin. That's the ultimate fear at the end of that tunnel, a constricting, life-crippling belief, Pascal's Wager, but it doesn't work. By that logic one still wouldn't know which of the many damners to join.