There is a carefully delineated path, hung with delicate balance among the stars where all things are possible, where the aligned mischief of uncertainty is overcome by a perfect amalgamation of steps. A philosophers stone for every undoing, where the patron saint of lost causes, despite tragic apotheosis, at last escapes the manifest reality of the true constellations, hard and cold in their insistence of predestined failure.
When we mark our course by such an ephemeral north star, we must not be surprised when the way points at last evaporate before us, and we are left to reckon our folly instead by the unchecked onrush of the ground. Guided falsely, how could we ever follow such narrow perfection along the shrinking curve of a descending horizon. The true reality that confronts us is coldly probabilistic, and faced with the collapsing weight of the past, the quickened band of transcendental flight is unreachable in its physicality, made all the worse by its own receding tangibility.
The gentle pressure of a finger and a single bullet capable of rupturing the tendons of unreckonable struggle; as if the smallest blotting of the sun might destroy the endless eons of checked expansion marked in struggle against gravity.