Take a moment...
Imagine if you will, a tower. This is no ordinary tower, but the equivalent of a long enough straw to cross the Grand Canyon stood on end. This is a gargantuan structure with the width of a city block that teeters above you and diminishes to a vanishing point. This is a monolith that sets an imprint upon the planet, parts the clouds, and pierces the heavens. Imagine, if you will, riding an elevator skyward along this Babellian feat and watching the world rearrange itself into a marble.
Clear it.
Think of the dust rising around your footstep, dust that jets out with the swirling grace of oil in water. Look at the slow rise that matches its almost equal fall. Consider how for once your motions truly outclass the ever-present force of gravity, that silent unrelenting power. Your footfall not only disturbs the dust, but it also disturbs your self. Perhaps reel a little as you take that first step, but not only do you steady yourself by means of your movement as you actually propel upwards. Totter mid-step as you grasp for solid earth, or rather, ground.
Restart.
The smell of gunpowder is distinct and unmistakable, not unlike ozone or bile. It is a touch of bitter and a hint of spice, the feeling of a sharp fingernail and glowing hot sparks. The sound of gunfire is just as distinct and unmistakable, a report as startling as a scream and with the intent of rape. Within your own grasp there's a feeling of power and unconquerable right. Without there is question, doubt, or flight. Weight of the instrument is not just physical, though there is a sturdy fatigue to holding one tight. Emotionally there's still such a burden, of decision and fate.
Clear it.
Think of the dust rising around your footstep, dust that jets out with the swirling grace of oil in water. Look at the slow rise that matches its almost equal fall. Consider how for once your motions truly outclass the ever-present force of gravity, that silent unrelenting power. Your footfall not only disturbs the dust, but it also disturbs your self. Perhaps reel a little as you take that first step, but not only do you steady yourself by means of your movement as you actually propel upwards. Totter mid-step as you grasp for solid earth, or rather, ground.
Restart.
The smell of gunpowder is distinct and unmistakable, not unlike ozone or bile. It is a touch of bitter and a hint of spice, the feeling of a sharp fingernail and glowing hot sparks. The sound of gunfire is just as distinct and unmistakable, a report as startling as a scream and with the intent of rape. Within your own grasp there's a feeling of power and unconquerable right. Without there is question, doubt, or flight. Weight of the instrument is not just physical, though there is a sturdy fatigue to holding one tight. Emotionally there's still such a burden, of decision and fate.