Shot and Chaser

A human sits by a wall. A human sees the ground, and a wall. These two are at a right angle from one another. One goes up. It might as well go up to infinite heaven. One goes across. It might as well extend out horizontalizing to inifinite earthness. The ground does do that. The ground - infinity through roundness. Groundness.

A human perceives something. What they perceive is tinier than the room they are in - they can’t perceive the wall. Can’t perceive the ground, for it’s true groundness. The human perceives only a tiny - infinitely tiny - rendition of these things. It is a view so personal as to be insignificant. How many human perspectives on the wall would it take to embody the wall? One? One million? The number is infinity, and the scope of human perception is infinitely small. It is nothing. 

A human perceives something. What they perceive is groundier than the ground they sit on. The human perception is a factor of every moment of existence in every corner of the universe past and future. The human perspective is a lighthouse on a promontory - scanning a dizzying horizon. The closer a human looks at a wall, the more wall there is to perceive, the harder they focus on the grounds recession into horizon, the more particulate oomph unfurls itself. There is no limit to human perception - one moment of perception by one human is infinitely large - as to encompass the entirety of the universe. As to pack the universe into a crevice in a brick wall. A human in Maine, listening hard enough, can hear cathedral bells from Rome. The fuzzy tendrils of human perception can never be said to terminate at any fixed point. 

Are humans “doin’ too much?” Is the modern world a crisis of sufficiency? Is it good enough? Big enough? Skinny enough? Is it up and to the right? Is it staring back along a desert skyline with lazy eyes, cigarette hanging off a loose grin? Does it flick the butt into the sand, stomp, and smear it with a brown leather boot? Does it have a critically acclaimed sequel? 

Humans are pissing. Pissing on graves. Pissing into the flowerbeds. Pissing into the wind, feeling the splatter, hoisting up their sweatpants.

Humans are moaning, making, marvelling, mooning each other. Humans are sitting at slightly uncomfortable chairs because the other place doesn’t have as good of coffee. Humans are asking about the wifi password. They are leaving because there’s no wifi. Babies are spluttering out of the womb and asking about the wifi password.

A group of extremist billionaire closet Republicans from a mansion overlooking Silicon Valley coordinated with the Chinese government to receive a sample of Mao Zedong’s DNA. That DNA is sitting inside of a biotech labratory in Santa Clara waiting to change the course of human history. But so did a dead house fly in one of the corners behind the fridge.