Freefall.

Horizon. Beautiful etchings of nature; omniscient and omnipresent throughout my history – everlasting testament to the power of force, the curves of bending; they’ve done it. I’m struck. The sun is cresting the horizon as I whistle down, through the oblivion of cascading light; shadows stretch across the distance, throwing the light into dark, and I’m awestruck, I’m reticent, I’m a suicidal recalcitrant; I change my mind, let me go back, take me back up, repeat, please, I want to see this again, show me again, I want to see this over and over; lying face-down watching this view repeat immemorial – there’s nothing I’ve done, nothing I will ever done, that even comes close to this. You defy belief at every turn, how the cumulus streams across a sky laden with emptiness; impending doom shattered by beauty; the outline of a receding moon sketched in the distance, a fleeting moment of tranquillity before reality rears its ugly head, smacks you in the face; no, come back, please, repeat, repeat.

Landscape. Picturesque dots strewn across a blank canvas cityscape; voluminous eye-sores breaking the flat plain of design; the merging of inside and outside, a mélange of colour, noise, people, buildings, structure, disorder, logistics. The base of operations. Towers loom impervious in the distance, before shrinking back down to nothing. Travel is time. Structures of glass, towering above the skyline, pricking the horizon like the forests that lay before it; huge man-made onanism thrown to the ground, allowed to build up, no space, ramshackle logistics, nothing thought through - buildings rise up, people fall down. They rush past as soon as you register their existence; fleeting, transient monuments that attest to the short-lived glories of man. Once you’re upon them, they're gone. Physically fading, failure to impact mentally - I throw myself upon these structures as blessed anchors of reality; I take comfort in their ugliness, their thoughtlessness - a canary down a mine; without them I'd be lost. Directionless dependence on man. A universal admission of depression. They spread like the plague. How did it happen? Buildings bereft of character increase daily, whilst true architecture fades into obscurity. Sure, you've got to admire the ingenuity of design; but does impressiveness equal aesthetics? No. They're vassals, soulless and pointless; facilitating a global economy of futility. I hate them; I hate them because I love them. It's the city. Contradictions at all turns.

Walking down a street you're met by the haunting, grandiose structures of period design; buildings built with one thought in mind - to be appealing to the eye, aesthetically functional. Trees line the path, the cityscape orchard of irony; unnatural growth a tumour within the clamour of commerce - planted by man, manipulated by the board, forced growth to please wilful tourists and residents alike. What are the trees hiding? Do they hide the true intent of design? That if we peel away the superficial will we be left naked, alone, without cover, open for the entire world to see? No, our work will not be judged on merit, we will be judged on our deceit, and our ability to hide our achievements; metamodesty on a global scale. Peer through the branches, next time you can, angle around the trunks and the roots, look beneath what you're seeing, and see what you find. The city is master of the covert; hiding away underneath these foibles of an empty generation of ignorance, the ugliness masked by highfalutin and a display of pleasure - look at our trees, see how the tower above the street, admire our foliage and bask in the glow the sun creates, cascading through the branches; see how it bounces off bonnets, and reflects human ephemera in the street; look there, where it lights the transient's soiled boots, and casts a shadow across the pool of vomit slowly dripping down the doorframe; gasp in astonishment asMother twirls her magic around our street, our suburbia, isn't it perfect? Nature is a cover for the twisted layers of contempt beneath; contorted by man for his own ends, thrown bodily against structure and design; we're not here for architecture, no, we're here for arrogance and personal gain.

Next door. What's this? A tour de force of palatial magnitude; it defies natural law, pock marking the sky, glass bouncing back the vacant expressions of creator, and passerby, what purpose this building serves is unknown. If it houses civil servants, it doesn't matter to you; all that matters is that it's next door, and it's magnificent, you can't help but gape at the transcendent smoothness of the frames, at the shaped veranda, and the imposing personality. It's a building without need, without reference, unguided, erected ignorantly by drones for nothing - its intent is to create intent; a paradox of 21st century narcissism, it moulds to temporal need, sensory barrage at all turns, a truly impressive structure. But soulless. It doesn't breathe. It doesn't breathe like you or I. Are not we judged by our houses? What if I live there? What will you think of me: Maybe... he's undecided, arrogant, a show-off, obsessed with superficiality, disregarding substance and complexity; working outside of convention, an esoteric salute to idiocy - show me, tell me. I want to know; the building guarantees an answer for me; haven’t you seen it, look how it imposes its will upon your, impresses the gravitas of self-worth weighing your shoulders down; love me.

Shapes and shadows of nothing. I rush past them, uncaring, unseeing, blind in a landscape of forced watching – guided by the tourist board of man; shoved deprived down back-alleys of grand proportions, forced through doorways that lead nowhere, just back to the start; where’s my brochure? Where’s my life-guide? I don’t understand this place. I’m stuck here, stuck to this ephemera; capitulating to those I fought through my childhood, I’ll never be a clone, never conform to these expectations, no, don’t push me, I’ll go there when I’m ready; get off my shoulder, stop whispering in my ear, I don’t understand what you want from me. Whatever. I’m impressed, I’m unimpressed, does it matter anymore? I react even without reaction, isn’t that what you want? Fine. Press down on me from all sides, I’ll bend and shape myself to you, control me, mould me, meld me into the mainstream; carry me downstairs to the bottomless pit of vacancy. I’m here. I’ve arrived. Your building is fantastic; keep building, up, up, up.

I see people. I must be getting closer.

Look at their faces. Why is she smiling, why is he crying? I don’t understand these reactions. I wasn’t programmed for this; it’s confusion and delusion at every turn, I was never meant to live within this sea of bemusement. There’s hands and feet, toes and fingers, shoulders and necks, perfect moulding discarded by ignorance; no, too ugly, too fat, too thin, too pretty, too broad; eyes, noses, chest, ears, mouth; aghast, confused, alone, accompanied; nature’s accoutrements discarded in a vacuous societal retard. Debasement in all direction, controlled fury welling where turgid, calmness reigned before – they’re staring open-mouthed at me; what have I done? Go back to laughing.

People splayed in front of me are nothing more than blank manikins in a theist’s marionette; androgyny and predictability the currency of stupidity. Throw down the gauntlet of personality, people run, ask for something, anything, ask for some difference, some individuality – cry for attention, plead for direction, and they run; scared, this isn’t right, where has routine gone? They’re everyday lives about to be broken apart by my arrival, they’re not expecting me, no one is, they’ll never know, and when they do, it will be too late – an ache will spread throughout their bodies, working its way from their feet, to their heads, wails will cry out across the cityscape of torture, confusion and a lack of understanding will be my trump card – you haven’t seen anything yet, populace.

I see heads turning, people noticing me. Why must they point, I’m not a spectacle; oh, shock, predictable shock; inevitable surprise stretched over blank masks, hollow eyes showing the lie for what it is. Screaming. I’m rushing towards the end; people cascading over each other in fear and confusion. There’s panic throughout, and disorder reigns supreme. In this last second I am the ruler of chaos, the harbinger of destiny; a vainglorious scratch on history, forever penned into the books of wanton stupidity; people will speak my name for weeks to come, confused and amazed, impressed and devastated, uncaring, crushed, broken apart – I am everything, everywhere. I control this feeling, this flood of emotion. I’m hurtling towards reality, cresting the waves of pain, eyes searing from the tears that flow freely now, frozen, so cold, outside of me, inside I am warm, invariable destruction awaits and bliss reigns supreme; final rest after internal battle, praise it, love it, prostrate yourself at its feet, and bring it gifts, the end looms towards us all, some quick, some slow, but it’s predictable, everlasting, life’s nature; ever the same; beautiful and terrible.

Come back banality, I don’t want this finality.

Yeah. He died. Shouldn’t have thrown himself off that building, eh?