Hope

William Gillis finds hope

And Spider Jerusalem walks out to his terrace after typing the most aloof and vilely pessimistic chapter epilogue possible. There’s a cool breeze on his bare back and I feel it because I haven’t shut the window.

It’s the sort of resolving breeze that presses you up against the skin of the world and wipes the fractal slate clean. It’s like the charge of life and even when it brings the sting of tear gas and pissed beer it still draws the arms wide. Where the lies and false idols are stripped bare. And all that’s left is a moist laugh, tickling harmonies of love for the world, and the charged wires of the soul, ever replacing passivity with resistance and hope.

Spider may have written cheaply in pursuit of narrative resolution. The magazine editors might have blown through their work with disregard. And I may be making a mistake betting on the laptop’s continued success in staving off that final crash. But nevertheless the breeze touches all of us. It's just that, unlike the primitivists, the rest of us express this love by refusing to give up on the future. Refuse a marriage of sacrifice.