universe
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un ui uv ue ur us ue ni nv ne nr ns ne iv ie ir is ie ve vr vs ve er es ee rs re se
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sun quick alluvial duel burst us fuel infinite envy one unroll eons new live friend birth is brief vein chevron vs verge err west meet stars red self
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the sun is quick
pride burst us
fueling infinite envy

birth is brief
how does it feel to watch one unroll his fate before him as a red carpet

gone to meet the stars, he said
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Birth is brief, fueling infinite envy in God, Who through googolplex millennia will never know it.

How does it feel to burst with pride watching one unroll his fate before him as a red carpet?

"The sun is gone to meet the stars," he said quickly, hiding the slaughtered dusk behind him.
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Birth is brief, fueling infinite envy in God, Who through googolplex millennia will never know it. With death, two sides of a coin. This is His tiny spite -- not even He can control what He feels -- and this it is that often gives the lives of men such horrifying aspects.
Consider Wyn-Victor King. He did his best at what he did, best being a relative thing. How well I remember the way he would, supine on his yellow couch, say something lofty like, "How does it feel . . . to burst with pride . . . watching one unroll his fate before him as a red carpet?" and answer himself: "My parents shall be the first to know."
Perhaps, but this is not the end of his story. One day when he was driving his car, he was in an accident. His head struck the windshield, and a piece of it stuck.
After many surgeries, Wyn-Victor King was disfigured. But this was not what set him off.
Nor was it the fact that he had spent most of his money -- he was living with his parents again -- on these surgeries, which were inevitably failures, but inevitable, because of hope . . . a quiet hope, hope quiet as a beansprout awaiting the spring, but an orgy in him, so wildly did he dream.
Wyn-Victor King dreamt that something would be returned to him.
With the coming of the snows he began to say strange things, like "You here, sucking up my life energy, what are you giving me back?" Some people did not like him for this. By now he was roaming Manhattan, sleeping beneath numbered signs and images he thought symbolic, calling himself "a quester."
Once, when he was questing in Tribeca, someone broke a bottle over his head. The reverberations really set him off.

Wyn-Victor King, you are not forgotten.
Your name is reviled in many languages!

This is what he did:
He took the elevator to the top of the World Trade Center. He looked out over the city, and raised his hand above it. Then, lowering his massive hand of God upon the city, he crushed it to dust, and scooped up the powder, and blew it away.
He bought a map, and set forest fires blazing across the U.S.
He lunged upon a globe in the Poor Souls bookstore, and smashed the earth's face in.
He rode to the suburbs, stole an ax from a yard, and hacked at the sun as it rolled in crimson retreat toward the horizon.
The police found him soon after. As two officers approached, hands on their pistols, he turned.
"The sun is gone to meet the stars," he said quickly, hiding the slaughtered dusk behind him.

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universe + 1

universe

aaron crippen