Pause. Before Eden, I imagine that people we’re fairly hostile to each other, but in a form more balanced, perhaps less patterned than man today, regarding stability and what have ye – these statements outline only conjectures as I wasn’t ever there (Eden) and really shouldn’t hazard conclusions about unfamiliar subjects and periods, times since Eden you’d have to be blind to witness, times much closer to now that opine via text books in history classes fathered from that Norman’s bellybutton, the willed Domesday, as final and judgmental as all true revelations topologically function and his arras finding peace in war as Anglo-Saxons are made no longer English, shoved from the final tituli, a document stitched in time to save more than nine, reifying singly the numerology of fact as color and shape with definition, begging to be decoded, and thus ingested like a palliative pill, one such example blazoning the cover to the very text at hand, the cover of a history book, (the book having lead me along all this time through the process of Unit-Chapter-Part-Section with neat cross-referencing between the illustrations and the bold lettering linking word to image, tidy contextualization with systematic midwifing of ideas for all to see, minimizing ambiguity between the two, for who could confuse the information now that this textual rule-bending finds its home here in history class, burrowing into the mind like an industrious mole and tunneling away ostensibly willy-nilly but instilling a sequence of events, a narrative one has to agree with if one is to continue reading, if one is to pass the class, because, “let’s be honest folks,” how can you really understand something if you fail to follow the narrative: a narrative that only can make sense if one agrees to its cakewalk with time, a trajectory couched in an objective study of a bullet’s hurdle through space and time; exhibits a,b,c, ad nauseum take charge, but still finger their hobbled tendons refusing to heed the 1.)source, 2.)aim, and 3.)Target, those three corralling the universe with a cowboy’s gumption, and a flatfoot’s intuition for putting two and two together, bar none, sans the remaining dregs, the rest being as they say – mystery?) a unicorn dipping its horn by a fountain’s gushing excess and the impossible creatures (couchant, trippant, et al.) alongside huntsman ready to sound the mort, its utility as adornment regards the location of the image for its time, once residing within Sterling Castle again in cloisteredmuseums of the high arts; now such a piece is here, in a Idahoan classroom, ensconced in Arcadian Rockies’ Andrew Johnson High School, a book’s loomings on a desk, under desks, next to desks, levelling aslant desks, books that have slowly undergone a process of perfection with age even as they molder like Brighton’s Pier, nearing completion with science’s everlasting quest to reach absolute hero, a purified state laboratories have neared that puts Vostok to shame, books so blazingly effective that even drawing away from its goals bridges the two totalities, and that the only remaining impediment is the content itself, the ergonomics of organized symbols at odds with the sea of remaining memory, insufficient in rendering the events, people, and places impressionable enough to be feed into the democratic participants of the great Project at hand, disregarding completely the very notion that what may distress its readers to no end, vis a vis, à la, viz. distraction-disinterest-disengagement-disability-disgust, may be that the correlation of events hereto referenced possibly relates with the same positive logic as a stray dog’s quest for vertical objects to stain with clear-yellow piss. And who could blame the Dog really? Without getting sidelined, I imagine that before Eden, things didn’t have the same weight to it, the same gravity pressing (more than ever and much to the chagrin of the Designers still planing the form of the table into this lived attempt of an ideal shape, having begun once again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, redesigning the single piece of wood available till its skeletal frame thins and the ribbons of peeled grain weigh more than the product, the table threatening to collapse from the weight of a book, we becoming lighter out of necessity’s sake) rather than glossing over us; because all those many years ago the sun and the moon simply spun around the Earth, even though spinning around the Earth isn’t all they did, even though we say they do it now, + who’s to say we aren’t spinning around their spheres, as we spin, begging the question of what we mean when we talk about spin, whether or not we can, even with the bonanza of dictionaries flying off the screen (OED: Spin: turn or cause to turn or whirl around quickly; (of a person’s head) give a sensation of dizziness; Jesus is he really gonna read them all out; no stupid, that’s the point, and I’m not going to continue this meta-rant over and over again; I just want to drive in one solid nail (or four) at the end of this two by four to acknowledge this failed self-congito) but each word, as we already know, opens up a rabbit hole underneath it, begging a neat series of zombie words that remain as fixed as the sun is bright, or weaving in and out of our fingers and sticky synapses, now-that-we’re-here-after-Eden-stuck-in-this-feeling-that-maybe we-can’t-ever-get-out-until-we-make-up-a-new-Eden-but-you-see-there-that’s-the-problem: then, we go on as before, somehow feeling alright, tears dried, and the eclipse finito, I running out into the sunset in light of Act V., somehow fast enough to remain in perpetual day, you watching, handkerchief in hand, though I can’t help but see it the other way around with a grounded piano sinking as socks fill with clean blood, envying you and your embroidered handkerchief because, God damn it, my mother never gave me an embroidered handkerchief, I’ve never even owned a handkerchief, and the horizon’s getting hungry awfully fast, and at least you’ve got a home to go back to = “what am I’m supposed to do, sleep under a cactus with my boots wrapped around my waist to stay warm, in the desert where during the day you fry (especially looking at the weekly forecast earlier this week over a lean meal of burnt griddlecakes and a tall glass of OJ, flipping through the funnies, hoping that they’ll never take em’ out though I never did laugh at those shitty jokes even the one with the sassy, little dog I’d look forward to every Sunday in the Condo growing up trying not to get put in the corner not understanding a lick of it but flipping through it after the coffee stains had already stuck those words together and you can’t understand a bit of it even if your tried your damndest) and at night you might as well be up in the Arctic with those bears pissed off more than ever these days on a’count of the economy, proposing to its ursine stoicism that the-time-they-are-a-changing, trapped over a floe of ice as heavy as lead, begging for the thermometer to just freeze for one second lest it get any colder, realizing as it nears that Frankenstein’s monster was never the monster out here but the coded story that wouldn’t stop[?]” Pause.