I am sitting above the clouds. Where are you sitting, coward? Probably somewhere below the clouds, like a square. Don't fret. I shan't judge you too harshly. Not from up here. Not from the sky. The sky is where I am. In a tube. Inside it. A tube of metal. Metal and wires and fancy signals that may include, but are not limited to:
Cross- Galaxy text flirtations
Secret marketing plans
Public marketing plans
This list is a small sampling of all the signals that may or may not be floating in and around this metal tube of mine*. This tube heads due east, my friends. It uses some of the aforementioned signals to guide me home to the snow, which I haven't seen in far too long. I don't think I can feel or read the signals, but it is entirely possible that if I reached out the window, I could grab one. So many signals. Like fish in a healthy, pre-industry river. Signals, signals, signals...
I am beginning to worry. Because of all this free signal sharing, there is an excellent chance that someone else is reading what I am writing right now. While it may not seem to you and I that this message contains anything of drastic import, it is possible- likely, even- that there is some subtle thread of ultimate truth that dances at this very moment between my words and your face. Our connection is too strong, I fear. If only we were less charmed by each other. If only you had a bag over your head so as to cover your mustache that you may or may not have. Then we might be safe from our animalistic desire for eachother. What is the danger of revealing ultimate truth, you ask? I don't know. Maybe nothing. But when anything is "ultimate", I hesitate to let it roam free. Like issues of "Ultimate Spider-Man", I feel as though we should charge somewhere around $1.75 per issue for this ultimate truth that may or may not exist.
In order to keep this exchange of information between you and I as secret as possible, I will leave you with a word/shape puzzle that you will need to decode:
(HINT: use your soul as a decoder ring)
* "Mine" does not indicate in any fashion that the tube belongs to our hero. However, since payment for this trip was made, one could argue that there is some bit of possession inherent in the experience of tube travel. Our hero will not make this argument now, in fear of being dropped from said tube without due process. In this day and age one should not assume that one is safe from becoming "tube droppings" with distant, fading calls of "Patriot Act!" as the only explanation or trial. One should always remember that we now live in a nation where the law is Robocop. It is judge, jury and executioner. Not unlike Judge Dredd. But remember that Robocop is, at his core, human. We can still play to our nation's heart and hope that in its moment of harsh judgement, Robocop/America will have mercy and shed a half-robot-half-human tear. If the country appears to be more like Judge Dredd, do not have the same hope. In the film, Ever-So-Sly Stallone wears blue contacts to cover his deep, human, emotional brown eyes. One cannot trust a nation that no longer trusts Rocky's eyes.