Gegenschein

    There is no light to be found anywhere but here, yet it isn't a light that can be felt, seen, or otherwise experienced without having relinquished the inveterately jejune conceptualization of forbearance in which you place the utmost importance, and to do that (yes, that) would require some unknown trait readily, perhaps sardonically, misidentified as apathy.

    Eighty-six seconds from this very point in time, a stop sign shall be uprooted, hexagon and shaft alike, from its earthly mooring and subsequently tossed into the somber heavens above; by whom and for what purpose need not be elucidated, though it stands to reason that the sign is bound to return whence it came, give or take a few meters, miles, or misshapen intentions. Ultimately, the particulars of its descent to Earth, be that an Earth of grass, concrete, steel, or for that matter, flesh, are unimportant since knowing the sign's trajectory and moment of arrival would be of little, if any use to you. If it were to scathe, to pierce, to ruin someone or something, and if that undisclosed entity were you, precognition would prove equally futile, as looking up or out is analogous to looking down - if you're to be struck, you're to be struck and there's no sense in lamenting the actuality of said possibility.

    In all likelihood, the makeshift spear is set to impale something else: you grasp the concept, yet the light eludes you still. The scenario is neither a conundrum nor a Zen koan. What this is, to the best of your knowledge, is unmistakably anticlimactic and like all levelheaded people, you demand something different, or something more.

    Truth be told, they always do.