It began again, the pitfall of an end. The high skies of a beautiful life, shot with precision, all words well thought out, a heaven of an earthly life. And I could feel myself falling away from it, right back to a chair in a house with no jumping about to rush when it should, end the lines where the beauty stays lingering. How could I hold on? It was a permanent cycle of addiction to that heavenly earth above and I kept rolling down and climbing up to another and wondering if all the writers and directors and actors and fictitious characters and fake furniture were all-powerful creators that stayed in their heavens for as long as they wishes and climbed down only when desired and of course they never did. And if they were not, how it must pain to fall from a world created by oneself and left above for others to fall from, never to be the same again, repetition never the same. Though I hit the chair and it doesn’t hurt save the thought of a feat I rolled from and realization that my innards had become empty of the heavens without a blink or a trace other than a far memory that could fade away as a dream that’s been named.