A Story About Progress

When he grew tired of aspiring to be rock's next boy genius, he moved on to real estate.  It was something his mother suggested.  He agreed it was safe.  He applied the same principles of theatrics and exploitation in the office that he did on stage.  He became the quintessential success story of the modern age: rock star turned entrepreneur, electric car, no fence on his yard, lesbian neighbors.  He was inclusive in every way.  He remembered anger with the sort of good natured indulgence that one reserves for the questions of children.  The world became so clear to him.  He saw all life in a continuous labor grasping for actualization.  He ceased holding onto thoughts and became.  When he looked in the mirror, he saw his father's face.  When he looked in his father's face, he saw history.  He pondered the mystery of identity that one life force could have so many names.  He walked only in circles, and never in lines.  He was so happy.  He never lied.  He died in a plane crash amidst the machinery of flight and the pious ejaculations of the terrified.  He made such a small splash in the water.  He felt so at one with all matter.  But much to his surprise, he was still conscious after he died.  He could not open his eyes, but he could see.  He could feel when small fish began to caress his body.  He could sense his lungs full of water.  He became prisoner.  And he resigned himself to the fact that he would be unable to survive death.