But the man was about big pants and bad hair. A lot of things happened to him. Just like a lot of things happen to each of us. He made something, took, was taken, briefly saw his own star rising.
Here's the thing. If you can be satisfied with living your life as a farmer you should go for that. Don't play the game of wanting more just because everyone else does. You'll see trouble soon. It will come anyway. So where do you look for that warm place? Yeah, the womb, that place you knew no harm in. Let's all make a bunch of them. We'll put wall hangings up and we'll collect kitchenware to place in our caves. Then we'll know that peace which we can't imagine out in the open air.
I saw this movie about three half-caste Aborigine girls out in the open. Under the sun, away from man with it's intentions and thoughts of what's best, they were happy. They had family and the education they needed. They were not trained in the mathematics of our culture but they knew about wind, sun, and food. Their womb was anyplace family was about. They knew about survival. They had help but their intention was to avoid those ties which make us weary.
Through my own pain I begin to understand those with deviance.
The sun is out and I want to go sprawl in it, but the flourescent hounds me. It flickers at me and I interpret letters from a glowing box. I am ill inside.

This was evolution’s dry little back-row snicker at us, the insect kingdom’s aspirants and apologists - we’re more cavity than calamity. In three dimensions, the exoskeleton is a magnificent sham. Did you ever notice how you can glide the palm of your hand over a bump in the wallpaper, smooth it down far enough even to satisfy those tidy-up nervous tics that seem to erupt all over the apartment just before the parameds show up to collect your weekly urine sample? You’d never have guessed that thick spot in wall was a specialized roach emissary, sucking it in, waiting it out, while transmitting the whole conversation via wireless insect webcam back to compact pyramidal anthill spy satellites in geo-synchronous orbit.

On your scramble to catch the 7:45 #20 southbound would you have looked back a third time at that section of carpet that seems to roll downhill - north, east, west, south, always rolling to lower ground - even after waking up hungover at 2:30 in the morning for the sixth night in a row, slouching to the fridge for the last three tall cans of whatever watery domestic sang out to you in the florescent stillness of Chevron Food Mart last night, dumping a clatter of coins and guitar picks and smashed limpet shells and seeds and dried beetles on the counter? Let the night manager sort it out, his mouth half-open, yellowed fingertips scratching an erupted pimple he’d picked earlier in the day, yellow eyes drooping into the blue television flicker, “When we come back I want to let you in a personal secret, ladies, that just might change your relationship, but first, a word from Mr. Oblivion Burger...” You squint at the plastic plaque in raunchy pastel colors where five cartoon penguins look carefree and luminous in emo-fascist attire that hugs their anthropomorphicized cartoon penguin sex organs, lounging on a slender dick-shaped sailboat while tossing fringed scarves across their non-necks and dangling lit cigarettes in dainty three-fingered hand-like fin-pods - and blue icicles drip from what’s written in capitals, in a mint-green tilt-up font, “PENGUIN MENTHOLS - FOR LIFE FULL-ON.”

A termite squeezes out of the night manager’s tear duct and flies off toward a stale porchlight death while the new cotton/poly pajamas on the other side of the door soak up the old stink of their new diabetic human stuffing as it swoons into prime-time. There’s a yellow custard-saliva curry suspended in a column, in a fixed drip from his upper lip to lower. The sound of his breathing drones on under the television blather. It’s enough to make you imagine what his teeth taste like. That’s your cue to leave. You scrape the last few pennies from the bottom of your pants-pocket. They clink down on the mess of coins and other worthless shit. The metal smells like sweat and Lipton iced tea. You shoulder the half-rack of tall-cans, glowering at the automated door’s electric eye and you dissolve into the sidewalk unknowns.

The scene from only six hours ago plays back against muffled hammering in your head as you hit that carpet dip on your way to the kitchen. Saliva starts welling up in your cheeks and your stomach is the wrong size... or maybe it’s on sideways at this time of the night. It’s a mystery no one should ever investigate, not when there’s still beer in the house. “I have got to get that fucking floor fixed,” you mutter, almost. The first can is empty in matter of seconds. The second tastes better; it’s all downhill from here. By the time your alarm clock reports your accustomed 6:15 AM radio static, you’ll be nodding off for sure. You and sleep have your tender moments, your spats, but as of yet your relationship is still undefined.

At this hour it’s less of a surprise when that same winged termite from the Chevron station rattles out of the empty can, nestles down into your ear canal and starts breaking it down in a language we can all understand:

“This is an announcement from Central Genetic Inc., the third of a sixteen-part bulletin.”

The roach operative under your wallpaper turns down his headphones to minimize feedback.

“Through decades of selective breeding and retrovirus gene infiltration, the insect and arthropod exoskeleton has been replaced by a sheet of microscopic mineral filaments sensitive to certain bandwidths of radiation. The filaments form a skewed grid not unlike two ripple patterns intersecting each other on the surface of a pond. The human visual cortex is easily overwhelmed by the oscillating pattern formed by these filaments when excited by properly amplified light-bandwidths, perceiving it not only as a solid surface but as a three-dimensional object. For as you must have determined by now, insects are without depth. We’re practically two-dimensional - to us, one of your communion wafers is a Tower of Babel - but our consciousness exists in three dimensions, and that’s where we have the upper hand. You humans blow a lot of smoke about ‘space-time,’ you butter yourselves up with theories. For all you know, time was invented by your Internal Revenue Service to remind them of when to slap another stamp on your collection notice. I’ve read the reports, but those documents aren’t going to get de-classified any time soon. Believe me, you kids never had it from the get-go.”

There’s a dry scraping sound from inside the wall. The termite flies out the open window and all you’re left with is that third tall-can... and it’s getting warm. It’ll be light soon. You might as well crack that fucker open.