PORTRAIT OF: AN IRON GALAXY.

To think you have all of the answers is a slight towards the entire existence; if existence can be seen as a thing, a noun. An entity. If existence includes time, distance, and every physical being as well as each individual thought ever commited to private voices in hot ears, then it could never fit in a pocket or the palm of your hand. That isn't to say you shouldn't try, always try, always pull the whole goddamn world towards you, inside of you, and lick it to see if it tastes of salt like they said it would.

In the end it is all much larger than you. It is the stress of the pack mule, the elephant army tramping up slim canyons, that makes your shoulders tight and jaw clench when you sleep. This is the effect of constant work. The use of muscle for doing the impossible. To be human is to not be designed for eternal living and the breathing of fire. To be human is to accept the desire for eternal life and becoming the impossibilities of the world and to use this desire to acheive anything you can. This is the routine of the common failures. The money loss of poor investment, the limbs removed after useless war, because at one point it was believed that the end of each of these events would lead to you as The Giant. The King of Forceful Thought.

This could be you. Human to the bone.