Twilight and the pigeons fly headlong into light, white bow-ties hovering over this formal evening. The path is lined with silver scales, the rocks veined with mica like water. There's nothing left to say: the feet of each passing passerby follows the feet of former passersby, this sunset follows the last one, these pigeons fly back to their nests inexorably, like boxcars chained together, as in slo-mo, as in instant replay. There's a slow dignity to this repetition, this failure. We don't improve, are damned, but gently. We circle ourselves, not noticing the light's decreasing angles, the aging of each actor, the train-whistle's wail, its diminishing returns.
You are crawling with diseases you will never get and you should hold them close, thank your blood, its feasty cells and not be snookered by the promises of already antibiotic soap. Thank your good pancreas, your vitamins, your T-Cells producing antibodies so you'll live to get taken out by something larger than yourself: a bad fall, a brakeless truck, blinkered stock-market advice. Healthy, hale, and strictly germ- proof, you'll be ruined only by the primordial, and not in the Discovery Channel sense, but by the mysterious and grand levers of a destiny vast enough to be labeled "fate."