allegorically (and in a sense, alchemically), the
buttresses did nothing but wish they were
ceilings. in unison they denounced their
'down to earth' attributes, with hopes of being
exonerated like the roof seemed to be.
futilely utilizing the craftsman's
grooves to catch the rain, as it shot from the
heavens and was trampled under hooves.
"I AM NOT WHAT I AM!" those props shouted in
jest, and a poor jest at that. the man in
khaki slacks was taken aback to hear the
lovely struts speak. he spat, "where are your
manners? be grateful for your place and do
not attempt to assuage the importance of your duty.
or have you forgotten your function too?"
"performing a perfunctory purpose as this,"
quipped the buttresses, "is raw shit!"
riddled with self effacement, they would not be
saved from their depression. the man's pride
trounced the desire to give unheeded advice.
underneath the ego, all things are allowed to feel
virtually worthless. even though they aren't.
"whither wander you? you sloven spirits with
xenolithic habits and habitats? don't
you see what use you have in this life? are you a
zebra or just a horse with stripes?"