Skyward Bound as when Human we Fail

The perpetual motion of walking just won’t do. The source of rocky spinning that twirls underneath us as we are forced to spin on her Gaiac orbit around the Father Sun has just proven to barren for us all to commit to, and now it is apparent that the moon will no longer disseminate its hoity toity glow above me, as a commitment to flight has prevailed.

I will sit majestic hovering over the wings of the taloned bird bounty that carries me from arctic northlake to perilous mountain height, unperturbed by the rolling crunch of highway wheels or the dictatorial happenchance moods of the modern streetlight. The gods will watch me as I flitter and flop above their heads, eventually achieving grace and omniscience in the waning sun’s evening mood.

Ooh I do hope they serve salted peanuts! And Point Break would be nice.