And we die. We are all Orion. Mythic and bold sold into slavery by our own cunning. Running to overtake our prey to slay it in the name of sustenance. Thoreau only missed the volume control, not the mark.
Desperation is our meat.
We feed ourselves truth like bandits savaging a deserted church looking for the priest's stash of gold. Cold catalepsies seize us all and who knows if we are aware of the post mortem knife, merely unable to scream as it slices into our hearts, dices our souls and prices our brains out of the market for grave robbers who need a new trowel. Herculean tasks before him, man asks with a quiet voice the price of failure. And there is no answer he can accept. Logic leapt from the parapet and fell like a star to delight distant eyes.