(AGH! AGH! AGH! – an idiot screams his mindless anguish amid the rubble.
Children, too, of Eve, forever building Edens – and kicking them apart in berserk fury because somehow it isn’t the same. Be born then, gasp wind, screech at the surgeon’s slap, seek manhood, taste a little godhood, feel pain, give birth, struggle a little while, succumb: (Dying, leave quietly by the rear exit, please.) Generation, regeneration, again, again, as in a ritual, with blood-stained vestments and nail-torn hands, children of Merlin, chasing a gleam. We march in spite of Hell, we do – Atrophy, Entropy, and Proteus vulgaris, telling bawdy jokes about a farm girl name of Eve and a traveling salesman called Lucifer. We have your bloody hatchets and your Hiroshimas. We have your Babylons and your Pompeiis, your Caesars and your chromium-plated (vital-ingredient impregnated) artifacts.
We have your eoliths and your mesoliths and your neoliths.
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