Once upon a time there was a man. This was a man like any other, with his gastrointestinitis and his bald spot and weeping hysterics during the Butterball turkey commercials (during which moments he wondered if he was emotionally deranged), and moments of exquisite pain watching the Madonna cut in front of him at the supermarket line, and full of rage when all that he loved and used to consider himself cultured was subsumed by the great pop-culture Leviathan. This bundle of emotions propelled the man into a state resembling sleep, a prison of the skull, where he was unable to truly see what went on around him, unable to separate the reality of his senses with the portrayal and image inside his thoughts; unable to perceive but only to ponder and to ruminate. To dissect each living moment like some Lovecraftian butterfly collector, each moment self-consciously examined and cross-sectioned and wholly dead. Then one day the sky opened up to this wanderer and he looked up above the mountains and saw the faded catwalk of stars, the cogs that whirl round the tiller of Creation, Great God! The clockwork of the sky! Away, meaty shell! He drops dead, briefcase flying open, borne away in rapture, his last thought a mighty O, the openness where sense bridges thought and faith is the taste of the color of the wind, the bridge that no man may cross and live.