A man chooses; a slave obeys.
A slave brought down a man's choice; Rapture demeans itself in shadow of the burden of the shoulders of Atlas.
Is a slave not entitled to the sweat of his brow? No! says the man who proclaims himself man; it belongs to Ryan. No! says the man who proclaims himself bearer of the heavens; it belongs to he who chooses the obedience of the slave by spurious, slanderous spiels of subconscious spoken scammery.
An angel – it breathes still! Look at its ephemeral beauty. Look, Mr Bubbles, look! Do your metal, nautical eyes see the shimmer of purpose?
Shick – shlip – slurp – like a sun in a stomach, shining like a plasmid inferno.
The whale song sings, the diver's drill spins. Christ avenging, the gun sings in the face of the father. Don't die, Mr Bubbles; your killer approaches!
Harvest or rescue.
Would you kindly choose?
You can't.
