The five men argued for longer than was necessary. A minute was enough.

They argued and all the while demons and ghosts stood behind them.

The couldn't know the unreasonable circumstance they were in -- despite the fact that they themselves traveled there by means no more than will.

The demons and ghosts did not laugh, for who can say what laughter is? I contend that it is of the same substance as demons and of the same fabric as ghosts (albeit far less frightening!)

So why would these five decaying men (for we all decay) invite not laughter but empty, cold wind?

Do you feel constantly empty knowing that trillions of things you cannot see or feel pass through you now? That is literal, so perhaps laughter and ghosts are too..

It is an aspect of your own insanity to accuse others of being insane.

How else could you justify your own life?

The scapegoats numerous, their tales the same as yours and mine. The difference is justification. They are our baseline; our criteria for thought.

I don’t deny that in your own weakness you would assume them worthless. Why else would “they” not be of “you”?

Now I contend to this “you”: Your reason for existence – the entire definition for your abilities – is therefore worthless. That is not rational.

Perhaps, then, “you” are indeed of “them”? Now you have worth, but at what cost?

Humanity.

Have you ever seen a person walk? Such a rudimentary and ghastly sight.

Of course you have, but that’s why it is important. Four poles; two on the right, two on the left. Attached to a central mass, one pair of the poles stiffen on their mutual hinge while the other two absurdly fly forwards, just barely accosting the ground. It is a wonder that the moist, revolting meat that coats these sticks doesn’t slip off each time this happens.

Rinse and repeat and still the meat remains. How horrible; to be in possession of a sole method of natural locomotion and to have to throw sacks of continually rotting meat before you wherever you go!

Perhaps at one time this meat becomes slightly torn somewhere near the top. Then, as the person thrusts this appendage forward the tear gradually widens. On the thousandth, or perhaps the thousand and first step, the tear becomes an all out breech: The meat, as a fireman would, slithering down one (or both) these poles, pooling on the filthy street. For the sake of argument it falls directly upon the feces of the dog left unchecked that day.

It is easier for the flies this way; they are already there.

You think how wonderful it is that at least your flesh is not on a pile of excrement. It is flesh unclaimed.

Forgetting, you attempt to walk onwards, your face striking dust.

For a while you vainly attempt to close the untimely breech; to make things as they were.

Fatigued, you give up. All that pulling was very difficult, and besides, are things really that different now?

A car passes by and you smile when it is gone.