Money

“Only when the last tree has been cut down; Only when the last river has been poisoned; Only when the last fish has been caught; Only then will you find that money cannot be eaten.”

-Native American Proverb

Fragments

Fragments. Arranged later into what grand fictions?
Gasps. Cries stifled. Aborted in the womb.

What is it in the act of travel that opens the floodgates? Joins the dots. I mean this not in some faux-conscious half stumbling bourgeoise dream, a simulcrum of understanding-through-travel, as in: “What did you do in your gap yaar Stuart?” “Me…? Oh I travelled. Found myself, you know.”
No. Rather travel in the Newtonian sense. A movement from A to B via C. A parabola. An arc of time.

And if, in mid flight, at 16,000 feet the great propeller outside my window had shed a blade, sent it whirling into the darkness, into the void beneath. If the plane had shuddered, sideslipped, lost altitude. Whiffled it’s way towards the inevitable ground. Would I have wept? Or cried out in wild, unbridled, oceanic glee?