And then I saw the entire world, but from above at a terrific height. And I saw all the people of the world going to and fro this way and that, but from that vantage they were little more than tiny specs, specs and points moving and seething over the contours of the planet. They moved through the colorless streets of the cities and they pumped across the corridors and channels of the built world like cells being pushed through an endless circuit of veins. They moved in groups and they moved alone, but unlike cells they carried nothing and contributed nothing to the body of the world. There was no necessity in their being. There was nothing of the elements of life in them. No oxygen and no nutrients did they bring, but they were always consuming. There was nothing beautiful or necessary in the rivers of their bodies. There was nothing colorful in the pools of their movement. From that vantage it could have been a dilation, but the roved and coursed at unnatural speed, faster and faster the streams of them pumped until their forms became rivers of movement, endlessly flowing and quickening rivers of movement and colorless speeding randomness. From there; from high up above their commonness was revealed to me and I knew that they were water and that their society had become a great cistern for the drowning of dreams. It was being filled by the immutable torrent of their bodies until the water spilled over and mixed with the dirt of the earth and became mud and their voices were drowned in it. They tried to call out together but the notes of their song was swallowed and rent and admonished by the currant of the thermals. This is the song of man. An intelligible howl for meaning and comprehension of circumstance. Man wars with the things he bears witness to and the things he senses yet cannot touch. Meaning and solace are the patternless diagram traced through the oxygen by moths and bees, their willingness to understand is the pollen. Though the nature of god can be witnessed in our geometry, in our atoms and our languages he has become a specter of himself; a boundless fiction. No more obvious than a lamenting apparition. He is become a self satisfying lover. In his world light is breathable and actual. In ours, only leaves and the needles of trees can drink and subsist on the molecules of acute vibration. The green and growing things have tendrils for strings while the wind is there sawing bow. Their opus is a hymn for living, and the song of their existence is scrawled in the clumps of frozen winter soil, notes stilled by the tilt of an angled sphere, voices resurrected by the god light come spring tilt and the ungraspable bandwidths of radiating particles, particles unmoved by men, oblivious to the condition of men, intercepted occasionally by the bodies and eyes of men and appreciated only as a sudden sustainable warmth while the starving dirt seeds meekly admonish the shadow of our walls and bodies, chirping incomprehensibly at the obstruction of their god-light whose pitch only can unclasp the seal of their earthen crypts. There is a palpable feeling of hopelessness on many of us now. The credence of religion has come asunder and as we wax closer to a conceived oblivion we are roped and bound only in manufactured suffering. Smiling faces belie an insatiable want for purpose. It feels as though the summer of man has passed, leaving only the fragrant and dry yet untouchable blossoms of remorse, blooms and memories which explode in clouds of lavender dust on contact with out fingers. Beyond the fading fragrance of the past, a mire of illusion pieced together and framed in selective memory. Summers past are recalled as more temperate and sweet smelling than they were, mainly because our past has become unburdened. We can't remember that which we've willingly forgotten. We look into the deep waters and find our temporary respite, though the trickle conveys no wisdom. There are unwritten songs when the wind plays over branches, though the meaning of the hymn confounds us. It is knowable that there are answers hidden all around, near and close answers to the plight which confounds us. Their proximity taunts us like a trailing sent of crushed summer violets. We envy the animals who endure the brutality of the seasons and living with inane comprehension and peace. Beasts don't suffer the enigma of purpose because they have one.