Part 1 (The Bird of Wet Rocks)- Edited and extended

The pointed top of his umbrella swings as he walks, scuffing the concrete walkway on its forward swing and tapping twice before swinging back.

He’s disappointed that it hasn’t rained; he wanted to walk dry as he witnessed a watering world.

Though he’s excited to have finally reached the ocean, he walks slowly down the hill
(the sight of his swinging umbrella cane would be wasted if he weren’t walking with the straightened posture, raised chin, and loose fist forced still in his pocket; if one doesn’t walk with nobility, regardless of whether or not there are other eyes to see, then the brain that moves the feet is managed by a feeble mind).

But even though he has reached his destination, he looks at the cliff across the foul smelling river beneath him.

“It wouldn’t be THAT far of a fall” he thinks, looking at the path a person of clumsiness (unsteadiness of foot OR mind—as one whose abstractions are too elastic may find himself pondering self-destruction every time his rubber beliefs break) would take down the rocky slope.

“Would I die?”

Even if one were to stumble off the edge there’d be, at the very least, a vertical fall resulting in a very injurious landing.


He pictures himself—minus the body fat and plus a whole lot of muscle—transfixed on his landing spot as he leaps from the most strategic exit point.

But then he wonders why he would be jumping off in the first place.

He imagines a beautiful girl watching him through glossy eyes widened in a trance state:

mesmerized by his shiny sun-reflecting muscles (he is no longer wearing a shirt), bulging like balloons as he—like the superman he is—prepares to jump off the cliff,

while at the same time alert with worry as this god (who alone makes her life worth living) puts himself in jeopardy, risking everything as he possibly leaps to his very death so that he can manage to… impress her?
This doesn’t fit with his perfect characteristics…

The beautiful girl already worships him…

Why does he need to jump off?

He looks a ways behind the cliff and sees a group of men chasing his imagination.

But where is the beautiful girl?

A gang of thugs has kidnapped her! And they will kill her if the hero refuses to give them what they need: the genius (that he alone controls) to understand every secret of the cosmos and be perfect in every single possible comprehensible universal way!

Although able to effortlessly destroy the group of men chasing him, he can’t do so; back at the gang headquarters the thugs’ leader holds the beautiful girl, dependent on the hero’s strength, and will harm her in equal proportion to the pain inflicted on his henchman.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, the cliff is now behind him, and the smell of Poseidon and his salty breath brings more inspiration than the danger of mere street punks. He decides that he must have had some plan when reaching the edge of the cliff—prepared to jump, and that the episode would surely result in him rescuing the girl
(after softening his landing with an amazing roll and a second jump—clearing the dagger-shaped rocks obstructing his path—and having the quick-thinking and strength-of-will to dive beneath the putrid liquid and hold his breath indefinitely as he finds a safe, undetected exit, somewhere, to arrive at the gang’s hideout, where he would then outsmart the kingpin and his bodyguards to safety snatch the beautiful girl and then take her home and make sweet, sweet—yet unattached—love to her with his victory-sculpted Achilles body, miraculously clean and smelling of male beauty after exiting from the stinking sewage.)

Now viewed uninterruptedbly, the sea’s invisible hands slap him in the face.

“The way a loving dog-owner pats his pet on the head” he imagines, nodding a hello to the nearest wave as it crashes against the rocks (of a pile whose top reaches the trail he now walks on).

“It welcomes me with a loving blow, for it knows I am no enemy,” he whispers as he covers his head with the hood of his jacket.

“But it underestimates my physical fragility.”

He puts his free hand back into his pocket, and steps the end of his umbrella to the ground as he begins walking down the dirt path, looking at the grey sky, telepathically trying to reason with Zeus to release the rain.

“You’ve been playing around with this soft mist foreplay, toying with me; if you didn’t seek a release you wouldn’t have grayed in the first place!”

A ways ahead he sees a few others enjoying the beach, ruining his seclusion. He decides to not let humans interfere with his escape into nature, his oneness with the supreme that mere mortals are too stupid to sense
(instead living in their own delusional world, sculpting the land, the trees, the sea, the sun, moon and stars to a petty, twisted and just plain sick subjective reality that they dictate—like cootie-fearing grade school children flipping from game show to game show as they lie in bed ill, tucked tight under extra comforters as they laugh fanatically, drunken ridiculous from too much cough syrup).