Joseph did not want to go and work; it was a dreaded exercise, he could die. He was nearly crying, standing near his door. 'Just go,' he told himself repeatedly though he didn't want to see his fellow employees or the sweet smelling women working in administration. He couldn't look them in the eyes or make things work in his favor. This job would not last, he knew it, and he was getting scared.

Joseph sat despondent on the flaccid wood subway tunnel bench - the classic imbecile. His butt was sore, but his legs were far worse. The people here, three to four deep, for miles, strained to hear the approaching sound, nearly invisible, mimicking at first a shell - a conch if he recalled correctly and then grew, in anxious crescendo, to a blast. An industrial roar rattling defiant psyches. He was one of many who covered their ears at the noise which merit brought them, hurrying their arrival and clearing the stagnant air for a spell before the cramped exchange. He felt sticky from the hot still air and was repulsed at having to grab a pole for support. His eyelids fell and his glance shifted to the floor, though not enough to cause suspicion, guarding his pupils from eye contact. His legs were a suffering priority, but there was no available seat.

He desired to be famous, or at the very least above the law, but fame demanded sympathy, not genius.

The train brakes, slows and finally halts. The compartment briefly empties and Joseph sits with a straight back noticing a large conspicuous slick of blood beneath the seat facing him. Nearly black with age but still liquid, the length of time the small pool lay there was unknown to Joseph and he seemed to be the only one to notice it. The spill troubled him somewhat.

Lately Joseph had been following the words of Singhe To-k, a transcendent economist, ever since hearing him speak on public access. He wished the world were under his rule. Joseph utilized his photographic memory and would recite passages from the speech while working or traveling. He would imagine the lithe ephemeral To-k was himself and that Joseph Silver was a vessel of the revolution.

"I want to first define the transcendent act as an absolution of appearance." To-k would begin in soft and slowly articulated words. "I would then argue, despite my discomfort, that the transcendent act is the only worthwhile pursuit of our given reason and being." His voice was steady and deliberate. "Many argue the virtues of this free to consume society or that metaphysical endeavoring is not the only means of extended realization. It is not my intention to limit the boundaries of the transcendent act and to do so would discount it. I am merely stating that there is no way, in which the soul of a man, with intellect and imagination, may throw off the burden of our divine spark, for a nominal intelligence inducing satiability.

Joseph wished he had a religion, or some deeper sense of belonging. He hated his father's cold secularism. He pulled the wrinkled pamphlet from his breast pocket, which he kept from To-k's appearance and read the redaction:

Adventure is long lasting and resides in the peripheral. Each soul in their day fights, thinking, "this is for my life," not for adventure. You who guard and protect authenticity suffer through the entirety of each breath relinquished and in the end will be satisfied. The peripheral becomes a thing of myth for the others to live in vicariously.

JOSEPH NARRATES:
viúcarúiúous (v�-kƒr-es, -k…r-, vŒ-) adjective
1. Felt or undergone as if one were taking part in the experience or feelings of another: read about mountain climbing and experienced vicarious thrills.
2. Endured or done by one person substituting for another: vicarious punishment.
3. a. Acting or serving in place of someone or something else; substituted.
b. Committed or entrusted to another, as powers or authority; delegated.
4. Physiology. Occurring in or performed by a part of the body not normally associated with a certain function.

[From Latin vicƒrius. See vicar.] See the vicar...

Back to the feed.

Feeling lethargic after a jolt. My mind slowly erases itself while the television flickers. Leave it be, I tell myself, but I can't seem to. Suddenly I am an old man and time mocks me in the shadows of fires I burn, time is the fuel.

I fear G-d. I do. I fear G-d.

I desire the future messiah free man, transcendent and liberated from the others.

Until then it will always be us versus them or me versus you. It would make things easier for me if I just agreed and swallowed their informative pills with enthusiasm. I tried for the longest time. I remember my mother crying. "Why can't you just walk the straight path?" she heaved. "Why must you offend so many people?"

"I don't know."

Much different from, 'I don't know?'

I've been searching out the darkness, wanting to return, but can't. I've converted to the light, the good, and the right. It dawned on me, sitting and looking into the courtyard, brick walls rising, how easy it would be and I why I would trade all the goodness I've accepted for another chance at destroying myself. The taste of drunkenness consuming a sound mind, burnt throat from the marijuana, being high and disengaged. I would die diseased, soiled and then, nothing maybe there would be something, a meaning, which could be lost and the others would say I should suffer the weight of all true prophecies and know it wasn't worth it. That outcome ate at my guts. The times are fabricated. I am still sitting here with you watching the sky change, though heavier now with sediment. Throughout the day I wield potential, to invigorate conversation it seems nothing comes of it. You and me, who are we? Two masses hurtling through space glad to have found shelter, illuminated and with vision. You appeal to me and I risk my life in the union. Nothing and everything in a breath. Beyond the water, removed from me and grounded, swelling men sun. I flicker about on the water's skin for a season consuming before being consumed and think how obvious I am. The animals on land free from predation and the fear it incurs, their offspring superior and well groomed. I cannot believe so many of us live out here in the nowhere. And the fat men reassure us that faith has meaning.

NIGHT:

Joseph took out the vintage television his father left him and channeled an old broadcasting network. The skit was light, entertaining.

"Look, Bob Hope is not only old, he's irrelevant. "Sparse laughter.

"But HE'S Bob Hope!" Swelling laughter.

"Bring in the new, baby. Eat the old." More laughter.

"So it is, Bob Hope is not only old but irrelevant." Smiles and applause.

He had experienced these conversations before, he remembered speaking about many similar ideas.

"Hello."

"Hello."

"Bwqugfqiugvqi"

"Exactly. Who do they think they are!"

"Kljhqu fguiq qp p3u"

"Sure. But I paid my dues."

"Fiqugqc q uicjsaazmnuei al;eu."

"sti**king taxes."

Joseph lies down, eyes fixed on the night sky through a freshly cleaned window and thinks and dreams.

1 Excerpted from The American Heritager Dictionary of the English Language, Third Edition 1996 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Electronic version licensed from INSO Corporation; further reproduction and distribution in accordance with the Copyright Law of the United States. All rights reserved