At the center there are monsters, invisible, beyond the reach of everything, where light becomes dark. Hypocycloidal shapes surround the surface, along the edges of a chase that never ends. The pursuit pays a price, but a price at what cost, and to what possible end? How much is this one worth? Or that one?
“The hate of men will pass when dictators die and we possess their power.”
The power of the masses, flowing into form, a single power-mass far flung into the center where the monsters roam in shadow.
“Relax. Let it flow. You are the creator.”
“Is this real? Or just a ride?”
“Whatever you think it is, you can change it anytime. Don‘t be afraid.”
I hold my finger to the moon. I fix my gaze until the finger disappears. The ground begins to quake. Vertical potential surpasses downward pull, and I begin to fly.