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A Fool now stands before me.
He also stands a side a cliff that sprouts dripping orchids and noisy dogs.
My voice has been cut out, like paper Marché dolls, my vocals are laid out in a strand 
of folded stars, and they no longer work. The cliff is the only one speaking, in a soft 
whisper; it gently urges the fool to jump. The Fool and I can see pieces of what the 
jump would undertow. We see no trails or signs, just jagged rocks and a vicious 
sea. The Fool moves one foot closer to the cliff, one foot away from me. My breath 
feels sharp now, jagged rocks have possibly taking room in my lungs as well. And I 
wondered what my lungs would feel like if this Fool would jump. His eyes are 
focused on mine, and they flicker. Candles are lit in them and the wind of that 
vicious ocean below is stirring the flame wild. This Fool is much smarter then I 
thought, his eyes explain it all. This Fool wants me to go in after him. He knows that 
with each step he takes, I’ll take one too. What if I followed the footsteps over the 
cliff, let them fall downwards towards a man eating sea? What would my 
consequences entitle? Death? Broken spine and ligaments?  As of now my voice is 
mute and apparently my free will is in mobile. So I stand before a fool that is my 
ruler, and I can only contemplate jumping or staying a shore. What have my 
ancestors done in the past, when they were up against decisions much like mine? 
Do I know any predicaments where they have jumped like an eye- gutted sheep 
over edge to lead a life of inactive living or no life at all? I think back to my great 
uncles and great, great grandmothers…and no…I can’t say they ever jumped. I can 
say when they have reached this point…they’ve fought. They’ve held their breath 
until their blood boils and allowed it to over flow, waking up the spirits of war. 
They’d slaughter the sheep before ever becoming it. And walked away for the fool 
to be its own man and take his steps in solitude. Yet, I can not hold my breath in 
front of the fool, and my blood still cooks at 98 degrees. The war Gods are still 
perched upon their clouds looking down at me like they do to the rest of the frozen 
few. And if this were to be a dream, would I wake up to a feeling any better. I 
would hope. My father would tell me to pray, my mother would tell me to let go, and 
I would stand still and pretend to know what to do.
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