Life grows around us like a skin, to shut away the outer desolation. For if we clearly mark the furthest deep, and stare with hot, hollow sockets we should be dead long years before the grave. But turning around within the homely shell of worry and discontent, a narrow joy appears.
We grow and flourish and rarely see the outside dark that would confound our eyes. Some break the shell. I think that there are those who push their fingers through the brittle walls and make a hole. Through this cruel slit, they stare out across the cinders of the world with naked eyes and play themselves against the many-armed envy, the cautiously optimistic lifestyle that persistently waits for one of us to slip up, at which point life - the universe, the hot tarmac and damp earth - opens up beneath us, a grave maw that devours you whole, spitting out your flesh form like an owl, while digesting your soul and free will.