The hapless spaceman drifts, a spaceman who wields no tool save his self pity -what a wretchedly limited disposal!
He shall flatter his divine image with the glory of his sight, the words of his mouth & the meditations of his heart. But he shall do so for no gain save the acrid rigmarole of his rudderless drift.
Wonder drew his magnetic chest from the womb, slowly to tug each rib into the circumference of bones which encores even the most linear life. But his haphazard rotation puts enormous planets, dazzling stars and magnificent galaxies before him only to taunt him for his lameness.
The curiosity of the young child can be nurtured into zeal.
The curiosity of the young child can become via most natural contortions unadulterated greed. But this greed will trick him to consider himself powerful when in fact gaseous forms travel all corners of the void indiscriminately, and thus have not sought him out on account of his inherent virtue.
Rage will cast out his current epidermis to make way for his new wrathful flesh. But the weapons of a man adrift in space could fulfill their duty no worse buried in the soil.
Love might follow his rage, sympathetic to preserve and restore the tiny spider near his things, the integral faith of his conscience. But not a day later love can breed delusion; a stranded astronaut might continue to look for heaven up there.
Goodwill might emerge from love, but who could he reach?
Duty might emerge from love, but is not his life already death?
This passing love might stale into reduction ad libidinity, eager to sow seeds of destruction at whimsical heed of a lascivious impulse. But space allots not even a sinful descendentry to a lone floater.
Passion might emerge from love, to tint & specker the objective experience by her physical world’s colorful arrays & contrasting shades. But the soul’s most magnanimous rushes make not life what it will not be, and such passion will soon leak out his suit to leave him ever keen about the weight of empty space.
The haplessness will consume the spaceman, and terrorize his helpless heart.
What is not, I wonder, vanity?
The Wise Ry Guy 