Loft Brand Cigarettes

When John & I lived together in the loft downtown
we we’re both in our early twenties
he being a couple of years younger than me
was head first into the post-21 self-destruction

I had been running in place for a couple of years
chasing the dumb gods of rock & roll
with loose Christian girls, Psychopaths, Deadbeats, Drunks,
Losers, & Women who love Losers
like an old cartoon I just kicked up dust
with some invisible hand against my chest
the Earth beneath my feet shoveled by my shuffling determination
until I was deep running in my grave
I was ready to lie down for the count
& leave that roadrunner be

John was still working at the coffeeshop
did the entire time we lived there
I’d already quit
& was sometimes fucking this horrible lying brat of a woman
to pay my half of the rent
in the beginning

At first we slept in the big open room
a couple of feet away from each other in the dark & empty space
one on the futon, the other on the chair

Don’t remember when we got the fishtank we used as a writing desk
but I bet John picked it up on the street or by a dumpster
left for the pickings by some one-time aquatic habitat enthusiast
before we got that tank though there was this big box
which we had packed all John’s things in when he left home

That was the first time I’d met John’s father,
I wouldn’t see him again until we were moving out,
he came by to help us patch-up all the holes in the wall
we put in, fighting drunkenly in the winter

In between John & I cut ourselves off from the main vein
John built a cocoon of the place
picking up every couch he saw on the side of the road
it should’ve been ridiculous but most people enjoyed the luxury of it
visitors could be guaranteed two full cushions of American sofa

That old American furniture
that is unceremoniously burgled from Grandma’s houses
around the world
was being collected for a perpetually growing exhibit
in our living room

The fabric was rich with texture, patten & design,
thin corduroy rivets massaged your every aching muscle
with each subtle shift

Most of our visitors had no idea though
they came over at night
& no number of lamps could light that cavern

The ceiling was so high & the walls so long
that you could see a radiating aura around each bulb
a clear outline of their effect on the darkness
& something about just seeing that
made them seem always dim & dying
or like so much candlelight flickering hot above it's own wax

We never could afford A.C. so we kept the windows open most of the time
& sounds from the street would drift up to us at night
we’d holler at the bums & smash&grabbers,
kids our age in from the county & out for a night in the clubs
the street would answer us too
& we would meet it
sometimes drunk, sometimes naked, mostly with streams of warm urine,
hostility, laughing, gibberish, unintelligible declarations
of self & country

So people came over like they were going out for the night
I never knew why
it was a no-holds barred slugfest in there
I never wondered then, but I wonder now
if they thought that John & I were only like that for company
because the fight never stopped when they left
& John & I stayed the same animals when the sun came up

After a good night we’d pilfer from the ashtrays their choicest butts
& between forefinger & thumb
we’d roll out their contents into a bowl
& roll a couple of smokes
a little bit menthol, a lotta Camel, some already handrolled Bugle & Top,
the occasional slutty Marlboro, a little grass if we were lucky
they always tasted aged & roasted
& we smoked them first thing after when we woke up
& laughed & scoffed & coughed & took a good look around the place

Packing for a Spring Funeral

He called me last night in hysterics
and told me his father was dead

I couldn’t believe it at first
being as it was untimely or at least, without warning.

It felt like answering a 911 call,
the suddenness, the gravity, the fear & the sorrow,
struck me all at once.

I tried to focus on the words,
I tried to make sense of their meaning,
I tried to console him,
but it was like the phone was suddenly a hot rock in my hands,
that I couldn’t let go of for the life of me.

I never know what to say in unreasonable situations;
I can’t tell lies or restrain my sympathy.

I never can stop apologizing for pointless tragedies.

I asked if he needed anything & he invited me to the Funeral.


I was talking about him this morning,
and about how I could scarcely imagine his pain,
about how important it was to be there by his side.

I was talking about him and then I was talking about myself.

I said I’d spent my whole life
trying to be a better man than my father
and how he don’t recognize me now when we meet.

He can’t see any of himself in me
and I should feel accomplished for meeting my goals,
but I don’t.

I still just want it all to have never happened.

I would rather be the son of a man who didn’t want me,
than the son of nobody at all.

I cried like a ten year old,
I choked as much of it down as I could
and I felt like some kind of idiot,
breaking down for the loss of a father,
who wasn’t even mine in the first place.


I had to go out to the mall and buy a new suit,
last Funeral I went to was my Grandfather’s in a country church,
it was another Spring Funeral,
but I wore a light linen jacket, cream colored shirt, slacks & a tie.

The linen jacket doesn’t fit me any longer,
and I don’t feel comfortable in any of my own clothes.

Maxims for the use of our Modern Elderly

My forehead is a lot bigger these days,
but it don’t mean my brain’s gotten any larger.

You won’t believe me,
but I remember this all happening before.

I know my welfare
is of no concern to congress,
but it matters to me,
nonetheless.

Rosy lips don’t mean much these days.

I’m a miracle of modern medicine,
the prized stallion of a multi-million dollar industry.

I don’t fear being put down for a lame leg.

I am in the garden of my life,
I can see the sun from wherever I can stand.

Fuck You, I’m taking the Bus!

I look at the TV,
I watch the news,
I don’t know who any of these people are,
I don’t know how they got there.

I already know who’s going to miss me,
when I’m gone.

References

“It is natural
to give a clear view of the world
after accepting the idea
that it must be clear.”
-Albert Camus

“The great enemy of the truth
is very often not the lie –
deliberate, contrived & dishonest,
but the myth,
persistent, persuasive, & unrealistic.
Belief in myths allows the comfort of opinion
without the discomfort of thought.”
-John F. Kennedy

“If a man is offered a fact
which goes against his instincts,
he will scrutinize it closely,
and unless the evidence is overwhelming,
he will refuse to believe it.
If, on the other hand,
he is offered something
which affords a reason
for acting in accordance
to his instincts,
he will accept it
even on the slightest evidence.
The origin of myths
is explained in this way.”
- Bertrand Russell

Telling the Truth about Immortality V

Confrontation

Our Hero asks of the God,
“Why have you done this to me?”

The Immortal looks down on our Hero,
he cocks his head to the side & says,
“I am not responsible
for your present condition.”

Our Hero is not steered into doubt,
he points accusingly,
& puffs up his chest,
& hopes for condemnation, shouting,
“You have shown your hand to me.
I have seen your work,
in the mortar that set
each stone to the path
on which I’ve stepped.
I demand of you, a Reason.”

The God squares his shoulders
& looks away for a long time,
but our Hero can’t say for sure,
if it was seconds or years,
waiting as he was,
declared of purpose,
& resolved to collect his payment
for the blood he’d spilled.

It had been long enough
& our Hero,
fixed so intently on his prize,
so sharply responsive to threat,
that when the words came down
from above,
their volume & clarity,
enveloped his every sense.

“There was a Winter once,
when you were very young.

There had a been a great deal of snow,
& it had been amassing on the sidewalks.

Some of the piles were miles long,
& stained with soot & smoke.

The rain appeared
as if it were being poured
from the Sky’s own swollen bucket.

Until that night,
I had never questioned
the scouring potential of a hard Rain,
but the piles received no washing,
instead,
the Rain laid sheets of ice
one after the other
until the mounds
glistened with fortification;
Their stains were sealed within them.

That is why you walked in the street
once,
you could never have scaled
the sidewalks.

I saw you in the glow of my Headlights,
every car was passing you
& each tossed ice from its tires
or displaced some black puddle
onto your person.

I was no different in my course,
nor was I playing any part in yours
beyond one of an accumulated mass
simply responding to their environment,
but then too,
just as now,
you shook your fist at me & shouted.

I ask you with no motive,
barring my curiosity,
What do you think I have done to you?”

Our Hero is quick to call,
shouting until his throat is raw,
“I will not have you lie to me.

You’d have me believe,
that you were with me in the coliseum,
& when I rose at the contest’s end
to plea for blood,
you rose beside me
& made the same plea
& your voice
rung no louder than mine.

You’d have me call you powerless,
& accept your role,
as no more significant
than my own.

Can you see any Justice in that?”

The Immortal stands in silence,
while our Hero swallows the air
in desperate resuscitation
& hates the God for appearing
to ponder,
time stretches out before him.

The voice glares again
in the mind of our Hero,

“I can see the torch of Justice
in most things.

Though, I believe, you mean to ask me,
whether I can see any Injustice,
in your example.

In History,
your kind have often believed
that Justice & Injustice
are two different forces,
or two sides of a metaphorical coin,
when in reality,
there is only Justice
& it’s absence.

Many of that mind
are great leaders of men,
& most others
are the followers of men
who personify
that error of thought.

Which would you rather be?”

Our Hero is taken aback,
he feels the emptiness of time
& fears to ponder within it.

He is aware that his fate,
is but a string
tied to an Immortal finger.

He is cautious of cunning,
but he feels out of step
with any rhythm
& the Immortal awaits his response,
“I have seen the fate of Leaders,
& those who carry them,
in the end,
one ends up with his head on a pole,
while the others
wipe the blood from their hands
onto derelict banners.”

The Immortal was quick to retort,
“Many people end
with their heads on poles
& many people
part the blood from their hands.

You have been one
or the other
many times in your life
& you have assumed
each time
that their were but two roles
in the unfolding drama,
which is to say more clearly,
your role & every other,
& you have chosen only one
for some inconsequential reason
as the part which best suited you,
but you were wrong.

Which, now, would you rather be?”

Our Hero had the taste of brass
in his mouth,
& felt, as though,
he were already transforming
into the beast
he hadn’t the courage yet
to name.

The Immortal
looks down upon our Hero again
& his eyes reflect the light
which fills the space around him.

Our Hero blacks out.

Much of life
travels by the will of others.

A hummingbird drinks its fill,
A sparrow builds its nest,
A vulture swallows its heart,
so moves the spirit of man
& our Hero also,
back to town.

Telling the Truth about Immortality IV

Foreward

We will attempt in this work
to utilize our previously stated definitions
in establishing a series of protocols
best suited for the artistic interpretation
of Immortality
in the Modern Myth.

However,
we must be sure of one thing
before we continue.

We must understand that the Supernatural
is not, intrinsically, the work of our Immortals.

In neither,
our literary consciousness
nor any
historically established moral consciousness.

If we are to Speak the Truth of Anything
it is our obligation
& our purpose
to Look On our Subject
in absolute isolation
& outside of influence.

We look through the Microscope
or we don’t look at all.

Methods

I find no great burden in proclaiming
that our historical canon of Myth
has failed to express even one word
on the Truth of Immortality.

But for all its flaws,
it is our Form
& from it we must establish our foundation.

That is not to say,
that our Myth’s monumental catalog
is, in any way, an inadequate means
to our projected ends.

For our classical Myth is primarily
stories of men
& few stories outside of Myth
have provided
so profound a portrayal of Man
that they still ring of prophesy
in their depth & their accuracy.

So, through our Hero we run this course.

A.
Finding signs of Immortal Life
i.e.

The farm is ablaze
Our Hero becomes suddenly enlightened
A plan enters his mind

The Wife, the Kids, The Horses, The Dogs
in that order
he will spread wings & swoop up each of them

Our Hero appears to leap into action
but
a split-second refinement of the plan
has altered his course

It happened so fast
that the exact moment is entirely unreadable
was it
before the step
the heel on the floor
the pivot of the ankle
the leap?

Impossible to say he just leapt into action
though his course was changed,

Our Hero knows that the children must survive,
He rationalizes on behalf of his Wife
who would live as a walking Ghost
to only wisp away
if she survived to a world without her children,
so he leaps.

To the children in the barn’s loft
he leaps.

B.
Where there is Smoke, there too, is fire

Let us now look for the evidence
in the Supernatural
then we can dispute
as to what hand our Immortals might play.
i.e. in chronological order of occurrence

1.) Fire
2.) Enlightenment
3.) Heroism
4.) Doubt
5.) Time
6.) Fate
7.) Love

Now, let us refine our findings
by choice & circumstance
to fit our artistic needs.

Fire is a high likelihood,
it has baffled man since it’s inception
& despite having dissected
it’s very fabric,
Man can do little more than
estimate the proximity
of a likely occurrence,
& only by model,
attempt to predict it’s behavior.

To accept Fire
as a device of our Immortal
we must then presume
that the Fire’s path
is aligned with our Immortal’s path.

So in the objectives of our Fire
we too can look upon
our Immortal’s unseen nature.

We look closely at Fire,
it starts when a volatile material
is fed enough air
& left to the heat long enough
as to sustain it’s being
by ushering others into it’s condition.

We know Fire is a three-legged table already
& if even one of it’s needs
is swiped from it
she collapses & disappears.

We make decisions;
it is a work of art before it is a Myth,
it requires our intrusion
to fulfill the promise of its definition.

So our Fire will be a She
& we will call her Byzantine.

Byzantine may escape Mortal Reason
but she is still as much the Slave
to the Designs of Life
as any Man
& as our Hero’s embodiment of Fire
Byzantine, too,
will abide the same laws of creation.

Byzantine by design
is an unstable entity
whose contact with oxygen
& exposure to heat
causes a reaction in her
that consumes & assimilates
all it can
just to maintain itself
& she is, in her way, doomed
to a bi-polar existence
or more accurately
a nature which fluctuates with potential
but can never sustain itself
in its actualized form.

We can decide now what form
her motives will take
but we must be careful
to not interject with
those petty Human traits
that we drag with us
from & to the grave.

C.
We return to her condition,
if we are to embody Fire
than we can also
safely embody Heat & Oxygen as well.

We know our old friend, Oxygen
is always ready to make compounds
with almost everybody else.

We know he is Third in succession
for largest domain in the Universe
behind Hydrogen & Helium.

We imagine then
his scope of knowledge
surpasses all but two other Immortals.

We know his coupling with Water,
sustains all life on Earth.

Do we detect a Mythological Creation tale
in the ether of scientific Truth?

If the Father to our orphan Mortals,
the Third most powerful Immortal
in all of the universe
lays with Water
how do you think that affects
Fire’s social standing?

We find our great Irony here
for Byzantine needs Father Oxygen
to achieve her anthropomorphic destiny.

What role would our ethereal Heat,
(we will call him Q)
have to play in all of this?

We know Q too,
though he is certainly more enigmatic
than our friend,
the Big O.

He is almost as if an Omen
in his seemingly prophetic appearances,
existing only in the movement
of Energy,
from one body to another.

A potentially willful Harbinger
whose sudden appearance
in Byzantine’s Immortal life
ushers in a transfer of power?

As good a plot as any.

D.
To further unfold the fabric of our Myth
we need only continue this formula
chronologically along our Culprits.

The most crucial elements are
our choice,
the acceptance of circumstance,
the adherence to progressive logic,
& the knowledge
that we may only seek our Morals
from the Chaos.

Afterward

In Some Thoughts on Immortality
I touched upon predestination
& it’s role in Myth
in a fairly negative light
but
I want it to be clear
that predestination
is only the perceivable state
of true Chaos.

We can assume then that our Immortals
are free of that perception
& though they would clearly see
the futility of will,
they would not concede to its invalidity.

In this we find a defining conflict
between Man & Immortal.

Where Man’s will
is rendered useless
& thus
invalid in his struggle,
Our Immortal’s freedom
from the Human Condition
frees them also
from it’s hopelessness.

If we then assume
that the Future is still
the same blank slate
to our Immortals
as it is to Man
then it would appear
subjectively
as though
in the Universe of Man & Immortal
the Eternal call the shots
if only because
their shots still matter.

Frankly, that Method was exhausting.
I can’t say whether I’ll continue
to provide further examples tomorrow,
but I would welcome some feeback,
if only to encourage
this amount of effort in the future,
so come back anyway for something, tomorrow.

Telling the Truth about Immortality III

Introduction

I think we’ve covered
the abstractions on what role
the immortal & the supernatural
can play in modern myth.
So, I’ll try not to re-explain myself
though,
I will be drawing
from those abstractions
for our current examples
& if I’ve been unclear previously
on the abstract potential
of these themes,
I hope these examples
will prove to illuminate
my prior meaning.

Let’s not, however,
put too much weight on our examples,
as they are examples
& examples alone,
& not to be taken as concrete guidelines
of genre, method, or style.

I will be continuing in the stylistic vein
of the last two pieces.
The space of the work is for play
it is unstable
& sometimes confusing
but never without intention.

You, the reader,
are tasked with differentiating
the hard logic from the whimsy,
& though they speak of each other
it should be clear
that some texts
are purposed to invoke
a shift in your emotion
or cognitive path
to the liking of
me, your author.

Morals of Chaos

Accepting
that immortals are supernatural
& myth’s are moral works
which utilize the supernatural,
then any moral work
which includes immortals
has a high likelihood of riding
under the banner of mythology.

With that in mind,
an immoral work
which includes the undying
cannot hope to be called mythology,
& has to settle for
Modern Literature
or
Video Game.

For that reason
& for our combined ease
I will be utilizing the institution of Myth
in name & function,
to reference the artistic environment
in which immortals,
are most commonly portrayed.

For this foremost
should be about Morality
& its artistic language
if only because Morality
is a product of the Mortal condition,
we can assume the immortal
is outside of the Mortal condition
& so
the borders of it’s Morality.

A.
The Moral has too long served
as an excuse for Mythologers
to abandon reason
in discussing the Immortal.

If we can deny the Immortal
it’s freedom from Morality
we can thusly apply
Mortal reason to it’s actions.

This results in the historical & present
framework of modern Myth.
i.e.

Some unlucky Mortal Man
draws the scorn of a raving Immortal

Our Immortal unleashes
some Supernatural device
to smite our Mortal Man

His farm is raised by fire
& he is turned into a dog
& escapes only to be shot
under the accusation of being ravenous
His body is struck by lightning
setting the whole woods ablaze

& every year around the same time
our immortal returns
with such disgust for the wretched humanity
that wronged him all those years ago
that he attempts to burn the forests again
and watches the rodents scurry away

& that is why we do controlled burns
to this very day

B.
When we remove the Immortal
from the clutches of Morality,
a different scene unfolds before the reader.

We lose the ability to assign Mortal Reason,
to their actions
& Our Myths
must find their Moral by some alternate route.
i.e.

Our Hero lives a fine life
got a farm, a couple of horses,
some dogs to keep out the rodents
a lovely wife
for whom he tenders every affection

They’re no trouble in town
their kids do well in school
keep their noses clean
& mind their ‘p’s & ‘q’s

They live in isolation
on a plain along the forest
nearest neighbor is 60 miles away
visitors are few & far between

When our Hero purchased the little farmhouse
it had been abandoned for almost 50 years
& that was near 15 years ago now
but that first year was a hard one

They we’re clearing the land
working long days
the two of them just recently married
building pens for the horses
turning the soil
in the hot sun
day in & day out
& at nights
our Hero slept recklessly
remembering the time before his wife arrived
when a vagrant had forced his way in
while our Hero slept

The villain was drunk & smelled like a railcar
stumbled around noisily
seemingly unprepared
for the few pieces of furniture
our Hero had brought
from his grandmother’s home in KY

He was making such a ruckus
that our Hero was torn from his slumber
& slowly walked the dark hallways
shotgun held to his shoulder

In the dark he ran head on with the intruder
& they both fell back
but our Hero was quick to his feet
& had his gun upon the trespasser
who squirmed & began to weep

Our Hero held his killing shot
despite the fear in his heart
& then the vagrant began to speak very quickly
slurring all his words,

“He hadn’t known no one
to take up residence in that home
in all his years,
he was only passing through”

His only mistake in hoping for the usual shelter
the vacant home had always provided,
he cried louder & pleaded
& our Hero,
with mercy calming his quivering heart
ordered the man back into the woods

Soon after our Hero got the dogs,
picked 5 from a cardboard box litter in town
& his wife arrived
doling out unending tenderness on the puppies
as if in preparation for their one day family

The following Summer
was as hot as it had ever been
the ground was dry
& our Hero’s first crop
had been a bust
having underestimated his workload
& ending up
planting too late

The house felt like an oven
& most of the crops that survived the heat
& the drought
went to market to pay the mortgage
& fund the budding operation

They were hot & hungry but happy
& one night they put the dogs out
& made love on the quiltless bed
falling asleep naked & sweaty
until our Hero was once again jarred from sleep
by the dogs barking as if in frenzy
he ran outside
naked but armed

The dogs had cornered another boxcar refugee
chasing him up the old birch
at the edge of the fence

Our Hero had to discharge a round
to regain the pack’s attention
he shooed them back into the house
wishing they’d stop their fussing
before waking up the wife
but he could hear them
carrying on as loud as before
as he walked back to the old birch

The hobo was still there
clinging to the branches
& had to be convinced first of his safety
before he’d allow our Hero
to escort him away
so, our Hero talked him down
& was leading him out the fence
when he heard his wife
calling from the open door

Our Hero turned just quick enough
to see the pack charging in formation
the biggest at the lead

Our Hero could not calm or deter them
the pack ran the drifter back up the old birch
but the drifter could not outrun them
& the lead dog tore into his leg
hanging there by the teeth
the flesh uncurling from the calf

Our Hero discharged another shot
into the Heavens
the dogs scattered from him
& the intruder fell to the ground

He yelled to his wife to call the ambulance
& he stood there naked
between the dogs & their prize
he was naked still when the ambulance arrived
& the police with it

They had to put down the dog of course,
couldn’t be avoided in these cases
& our Hero did so honorably
& that was the last time the county cops
came out to the farm
but that was 15 years ago now
& if its mentioned at all
its between cops & over a cup of coffee
the story of a naked farmer
fighting off his own dogs
from devouring the man who aimed
to rob him

Life was good as it could get
our Hero established himself well
the dark days of struggle long in his past
& then the fires came

Later the weathermen would claim
strange atmospheric conditions
as a result of global warming
kept the rains away for too long
& the ground was dry
& the air felt like sparks
& a large scale fire was bound to happen

But it threw the small county into shock
our Hero’s farm was the first to go
it was only assumed
that they had been engulfed in the flames
& with all effort still tied up
in controlling the blaze
& the panicked townsfolk
it took a day before the authorities
could make it out to the remnants
of our Hero’s homestead

An old cop arrived before the EMTs
he’d remembered the place
maybe he responded to the call
maybe he didn’t
but he remembered the story well enough
& he expected to hear
the howling of the dogs
but it was silent as he drove up to the fence

He got out of his car,
cleaned his glasses & straightened his hat
looked up to see running towards him
a large dog covered in soot
looking rabid & confused
& he didn’t have to think
his heart leapt into his throat
& he fired three rounds into the animal
& stood upright, shocked,
& suddenly without purpose
he reached for his radio with a shaky hand
he had to call it in
report the situation
he reached slowly & unsure
& as he got his hand on it
it suddenly blared with warning
the wind had caught the fire
turned it around
& threatened to engulf everything in sight

C.
You glare at our little Hero’s story
& you cry out,
Where are my God’s,
My meddling immortal foes?
Where are the webs they’ve woven in time?
Where is the myth,
& where is the storyteller?

We return to our definitions
& our previous work

Myths
stories that a particular culture
believes to be true
& that use the supernatural
to interpret natural events
& to explain the nature
of the universe & humanity.
-wiki

Is our Hero’s story entirely unbelievable?
Is there no culture
that our Hero could’ve arisen from?
No one that could not relate,
in some way,
to his plight?

& of the Supernatural?
Was there none?
No reason beyond man’s comprehension?
Nothing criminally improbable?

Where there is smoke, there is fire
& our immortals must play some part.

We know
they are beyond mortal understanding,
their actions are the Supernatural.

So,
we follow the trail from the unexplainable
& we find our immortals there.

But,
what, of our Hero’s tale,
was beyond his own comprehension?

If,
we give our Hero any credit,
then it is easy to assume
that his own choices
were within his comprehension
(most of the time)
thusly,
under his own volition
& clearly of quite natural origins.

So,
that only leaves
every other thing
in the universe.

D.

Now,
the landscape of our Mythology
is transformed.

&
it still is,
if not more,
conceivable now
that our Immortals play a part
in the world of our Hero.

The Mythologer is freed
from the rational world
of conceivable outcomes
to inconceivable circumstance.

Mortal Man remains pet
to the will of the unconscionable
but rightly
with no sensible answer.
i.e.

Baby talk
The locking of a pen
The over-feeding
The starving
Firm reassurance
Unfathomable love
&
Un-seeable neglect

If everything beyond
our Hero’s comprehension
is logically the work
of some Immortal being
whose existence itself
baffles all of Mortal man,
our Hero’s story
is still a battle against an inescapable fate
wherein he trudges through the dark
battling invisible opponents
& fearing every thing but his own will
may already have in it
some unconscionable intent.

Our Morals are Morals of Chaos
Our Wisdom not born of Reason
Our Wisdom is born of a kind of Madness

Of the quiet Lunacy in accidental revelation
while wrapped in a veil
so tight & so thick
that most of your life is spent

kicking & screaming
& wondering if you’re alive at all.

Our Morals must speak of liberty
from unneeded suffering
in a world
where nothing is within our control.

Frankly, those Morals of Chaos are exhausting.
Come back for part IV, Methods, tomorrow.