i erased everything i just wrote. which wasn't much to start. sometimes a person has to go a very long distance out of his way to come back a short distance. where i am meant to end up, is a matter of significant internal conjecture, as i'd imagine it may be for some of the rest of us. the rarity, the significance rather that could be placed on a plane's shadow oscillating wildly across unmanageable terrain to cross over your head, and shield you from the sun instantaneously on a hot day... it could be said of such significance or insignificance, you live too close to an airport to be drawing such inferences, or that we're too close to the sun, or aren't suited for exposure to it or suchlike. maybe our skin is too transluscent, or our tints aren't dark enough, or the air conditioner is broken. there wasn't any air conditioning to begin with. but this oh so fleeting and temporary relief, from something as constant to us as the sun, so rare a relief, fulfills me for however long the encounter decides to take in order to relive itself. so many crusaders without a substantial issue to be addressed, so many more effectively dispossessed and unlicensed, their agency let and drawn from them, by degrees, sure. i'll let down my gaurd when walls start, continue, and have finished falling. i'll give them each a sharp shove of false security as encouragement to rouse them up if they are playing dead. rifle slung, and sidearm accounted for, right there, to be sure. in this gift of an existence which owes it's greatness to inassuredness, to appreciation above this is what we have been brought for to accomplish. nothing if you're not interested. the volume of splendor and qualitative attraction whatever this is, is inversely proportionate to whatever it is you've drug up from the ocean floor, or in immediate sight off the bow. for some of us, we descend a mile and experience severe and irreversible equipment failure. so we're always then and forever more hobbling a bit, il equipped, or drowned, and drowned. there is a lot of weight that sits on the ocean floor. a lot of heavy fluid. intangible, incorruptible, intractable  indefinable, nebulous, ambiguous substance, that can hardly be considered substantial, outside of our utter dependence on it, and all of the functions that we owe to it, the purity of it, the irascible and destructive nature of it's misappropriation. if the earth decides, which it has had a history of doing, 

to stir it up, and the sky decided to gather a little up for the next time it shows up, they will, a manuever entirely devoid of reservation. dump on us. pour. some of us are as good as tied blindly to the balance of our ranks, to the bottom of the ocean. and we sort of like it here. it'll take a serious inducement to see us surface.