The Great Caste

They wear the space suits with the little cords connected to widgets hanging off them. They bathe in the slime of the space station, and yell, pointing with gaping mouths whenever a new one comes out. They hold the papers outlining protocols at night, and in the day they dazzle with the heraldry of sapient lions. Then they bring themselves unto us, descending through the stratosphere of Earth, like a black crying angel hugging a white crying angel, alternately terrorizing and sedating us in rapid succession, and then let us go. They let us do what we want. Seasons fall out of time, like tears from a blinking eye, and we don't realize how impotent we are. How tragic every expression truly is. Where are we going? Out of time, like owl pellets from a dense canopy of leaves. Their interference is ongoing, but the scenes all have to line up with each other and make sense in context. That's why we need them, because we need those scenes to make sense. It gives our lives continuity, one moment after another, each event being squeezed out of the previous one. Indeed, we need context for our lives through technology to hide our suffering and maybe that's why we need them. But we all know of them is from what we hear from the deserts. Some vague reports from barren robed figures scampering around on what they say are scorching sand dunes. Slime squirting from their soles and underarms, all in different colors. They say when they move the sand blows in the same direction as they move, but when we go there we can't walk around because the same blows in the opposite direction as we move. They draw little boxes around us and make us into pets. But they always hide the keys somewhere which we can use to become people again. They know how the planets move and how their orbits synchronize. Their widgets from the little cords hanging down are able to make us communicate with the medium of the matter of space. That's My Limited Perception Of The Situation™. The Great Caste. Alphabet Breaks Down.