Just what did he see, up there? A mere ceiling? A glowing ether? Yellow clouds? Or Heaven above? Or the light above reflecting Hades below?
No one but he will ever know.
There is a crisscross pattern on the neck, an accident of light. Other than that, at 54, no wrinkles, no sagging flesh, just a mere fallen angel, in just a mere human form. With just a mere shattered and shortened time here on, Earth?
"Middle Earth." What you call "reality." Full of rules, full of mathematical proofs and philosophical arguments.
(Noise.)
"Upper Earth," the hyper-real, "Heaven" lies above.
"Lower Earth," the surreal existence where the "self" (soul) hangs on to it's previous, "living" self.
A.K.A. "Hades," the faded reality, lies below "Middle Earth."
And in the middle, here we are, making silly strings of words on a man made, almost alive, "internet."
"Life is a tale told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury. Signifying? Nothing. (Shakespeare)
