The glue is melting. Its gooey body unsealed and hugged my thumb. The glue is old, and it is melting. Did you really think that it would last forever? That it could withstand the heat you subject it to? It is melting now and can hardly fasten your construction together. In a moment, nature's forceful enforcer will cake it off, and then there will be rubble.
I am the watcher, and I am waiting for the pieces to fall. I am waiting for the righteous to burn down the old with ignorant ease and then become one with the ashes, leaving barrenness and isolation as their legacy.
I am the passive observer, an object of scorn. I stand selfishly out of time with my left hand cupped over my mouth to hide a smile, but if you met my shaded eyes you might see my concern. My right hand holds a tube of glue--not much but enough for an innovative mind to work with. I will yield it to those who are able to break history's circular curse. And I will know them when I see them from my rude, rocky heights.
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