My, the apples on the ground are much more

My, the apples on the ground are much more soft than the apples on the trees. Look at the size
of these fallen apples, so bloated with gas and worms, and compare them to the tiny globes high in the boughs, just
out of reach of the little people. For some reason, they didn't like Leprechauns around here. I lifted a bottle of swig to my lips, and asked the guy to my left to point out the
nearest spittoon so my little friends would have a place to take a bath. I never even saw the left hook that hit my zipper and exploded my brain. I think I passed out. I know I
was wearing glasses, but I'm still not sure how it's possible that I ended up on the front page of the Daily News covered in
tattoos. The last thing I can clearly recall is talking to a tall, dark and handsome man at the bar. He was a pilot, I think. He told me that most airline pilots never
never really fly, they just soar through their minds eye and hope
that something will come to mind. After all, they play this game every single day and try to hope for the best. I know that I
do. Hope is, sometime, all humanity has that proves self-awareness. Other than that, we might as well be mindless amoebas.
Even so, the balance of our worst affronts can be weighed against the first breath, and echoes of new hope that ring in the first cries of our children.

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