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Upon the Edge (of the Abyss)

by Oliver Kaufman
Writing stories on the computer, trying to find the truth. There's something to be said for that,
something to be said indeed. For as we make our way along the attitude adjustment of forever, we
wonder if ever we were to change something the wrong way, if it would be for the best or worst, or if it
be something we are in need of, of course. Fairly well. We are in need of something, of something,
needing something along the lines of something that we cannot see too clearly, yet dearly, so dearly we
still need it. Or not. Nothing is necessary, after all. We could languish in the pig-sty of our own
inadequacies, relish and cherish our hideous imperfections, confusions, and lackadaisical leanings, this
way and that.
But enough talk. What we're here for is one thing, and one thing only. A story. A way forward
through word and song, protecting the one thing we hold so dear, though we cannot hold it near yet at
What of it? What of the song that perpetrates our demise? What of this wise, who bequail our
fate, that diminish us with echos of the past unwritten into the future?
What of the wayward fools? Those who use their time most unwisely, who work their way into
comfortable corners on the precipice of an abyss, where their tiny home inch slowly closer through the
etchings of time, towards the pit of despair.
Or the whisperers, who cry inside, their eyes and noses tingling with sorrow, with unsaid
feelings, feelings that they wish to share, but can't, their mouths tied shut, their heads heavy.
What of the wanderers, and their various ways? Who can sit in no place for too long, and whose
hearts are heavy at the cry of stagnation, whispered in their minds from some forgotten place.
And what of the sorrowful, and the downhearted, leaning forward, ribcage low on breath, eyes
sad and drifting upon nothing, nothing catching their fancy, not even the nothing itself. Those who look
down and sigh, and wonder upon the nature of reality, for they would rather occupy their time with
wondering about something, than with the nothing that they drift towards.
And what of the raucous, the party-goers, the jubilant and sincere? Those who laugh and sing
and dance and dream, and wait upon the edge of the abyss, setting up camp on their side, paying no
mind to that which binds them to that place. For the abyss can be crossed another day... another day.
Very well then. Another day it is, and another time, another place, though none go spoken. Another
rhyme, for which there is many, another wondering, for which there is time. Another day-break, for
which you may arrive, and another arrival, for which you can...
Silence. Nothing, not a sound upon the hill, nor down in the vale, nor anywhere in-between.
Silence, irking no one, yet stretching out from horizon to sunset, sunset to horizon. Very well then, it
shall be done in such a way, it shall make its way from beautiful gardens to the black abyss of time. It
shall make its way farther than the farthest shooting star that has made its way across galaxies, arriving
no where, but traveling, forever.
Hah, yes, hah. Hahaha. A laugh, a fervent laugh in spite of the dark an encroaching dark,
drifting towards the shell of the people who wait upon the edge of tomorrow, who wait their, wishing,
hoping, drifting, eyes weary, memory of past days that were happy upon their brow. Days when things
were not so deep, or not so shallow. How could that be? And yet, so it was...
Very well then, nothing it is that makes its way into despair. Nothing it is that fights with
tomorrow, that sets itself upon the sun like an up-raised peacock waiting for despair to set in. Nothing
waits like that which calls to the one whose belly rises and falls with the tides, that waits to see the
coming of tomorrow like a sad-sack belly weaving beaver, building nests forever within the tidal shell
of life. Fairly well, is all things. Fairly well, was the arrival of time. Fairly well, was the grim
acceptance of our fate, of the lively stone, and the wishing well. Fairly well, I say, was the chemical
combustion stain upon the bread of forever. Fairly well, shall all things pass in front of view, like a fast

flip-book of a movie, slides clipping one into the next, forever made into an instant, or a few.
Fairly well, yes. Fairly well indeed. Fairly well indeed that we shouldAnd silence. What is it that waits upon the morrow? What is it that waits beyond the bend?
What is it that waits despite the silence we greet it with, or pretend that we are nary but a friend? What
beams at us from high above, what growls at us from deep below? We shall not speak of these things,
for these are extremes. And, extremely, extremes do not help us in living our life, in making our way, in
trusting in the things, here and there, that can take us from here to there. Nonsense that's all this is.
Just a bunch of nonsense. Hah hah. Fairly well.
Fairly well indeed when nothing can contain the robust nature of forever, leaning forward to
take the place of that one that waits upon the edge of the abyss. Fairly well it is when that someone has
mistaken the identity of that which waits for him on the other side, amid shadows, and smiling through
sharp teeth.
Hah, what waits for him there? Oh nothing, nothing. Nothing but the peaceful melancholy of a
decline into chaos. Nothing but the sincerest longing of forever, escaping from forever, fearing nothing
but the taste of flesh upon one's brow, and the beating of the heart, and the snapping of jaws. Nothing,
nothing, yet nothing still, buried beneath the snow, in dew-drops plain as day. Nothing but the snapping
of jaws, the mending of clay, and things which bend here and there, and wait for something to give.
Wait for something to live, to breath, to give them permission to make their way upon tomorrow
towards something more real than that reality with which there are so engaged.
Rage. Rage at those things that trouble them. Rage that they need be troubled at all. Rage at the
wheel of time, furiously turning this way and that, rendering them useless by comparison. Rage at the
fulfillment of destiny, about the confines of fate, about the witnesses which stand to give testimony as
to their detrimentality upon the world, and the ill fate they have suffered at those hands. Verily, verily I
say to you, nothing is that was, and nothing was, that is. Verily, those who have suffered know the
riddle of fate most clearly, or who speak its rhyme. Those who surrender themselves to the fate meted
out for them by reality are treated most forgivingly, while those who don't are futured upon the morrow,
and mete out punishment to themselves, and crime, and indecency. Very well then, very, very well.
Shall I tell you a tale?
The tale is of a farmer, who hastened to his crops. He saw one day that his crops were suffering,
and was most disturbed.
But that is not the whole of this tale. Indeed, there is more. The farmer went to pick the crops,
despite their state, and found them fat with vitamins and nutrients.
Most strange, thought the farmer, picking up a carrot to look at its bulging girth. Very
strange indeed, that a plant should be so barren on the surface, yet so fruitful underneath. Very strange
And yet it was that despite the suffering his plants seemed to be undergoing, and despite the
state of the leaves of the plants, and how all withered up in the sun they looked, underneath, at the level
of what was truly to be eaten, the vegetables were fat, and ripe, and full and rich. Fruitful indeed were
these plants, and everything about them was magnificent, except for their surface appearance, of
course. And yet, wondering still at the nature of reality, we take our way from the barbaric surface
appearance, and yet ignore that which exists underneath, that lines the underpinnings of our world, and
society, and the world at large. Very well, I said, very well that things are like this. And so it goes. Hah
no one can tell precisely what they mean, but it is enough to say that they do, and that they mean
what they say, and that they are doing what they can to earn the prejudice of all mankind, so that what
can be done to them can be surfacily done beneath the surface, and things which make up the confines
of reality shall yet breach their covenant and reunite with the girth and birth that is their origin, and fill
themselves on that which withers them on the surface. Hah, very well that it should be so, and very
well that the brains shall mimic that which doth take from the souls of mankind, and doth take from the
doers and the movers and the ones who sit upon the crowd and shake their souls to the point of

breaking. Very well that they sit, and pick their nose, and wonder about why it is that reality sees them
so, that roots out their very nature for them, that exposes the lies that rest upon uncertainty, that forgets
all wrongdoings, and purgeries, and mistellings. Very well, that that which brings upon itself the
unforgiving nature of mankind, that that would begin to begin again, and that that would lovingly
embrace its own kind, for the preservation of a tenuous peace which begets all things yet again, into a
never-ending cycle of forgetfulness, and merciless mercy. Very well that it should be so, that the things
which wait upon the horizon shall wait forever, and gnash their teeth, and smile most unforgivingly.
Indeed, that which waits upon the horizon shall forever hold its notion to its breast, and shall smile still
more greedily at the despair of a thousand nations launching their dubious attacks on the highlight of
all life, on the birthplace of all grief. Very well that it should be so, when the duckling quacks to wake
itself up, and futuristic duckling bites to beget itself anew. Very well, that these things should trip so
readily from one thing to the next, and that sensuously the words shall senselessly follow from one
thing to the next, unendingly, without end, until the ending which waits, verily, upon the borders of the
kingdom of boredom, or some such place. Verily, shall the wing-beats of birds that breast upon the
teardrops of tomorrow, rest a while upon the edge of the wagon-train that waits for the borderlands that
beget a new horizon of furious listening. Very well then, that everything should follow, and wait, and
begin, and end, and forget, and live, and forget to live. Very well then, that things should pass, and that
time should flow, and that the endings that beget our rhyme shall pass from this world to the next, and
onward into the ever-flowing tomorrow that sits upon our hopes like a mad crow, listening, listening for
nothing, for something,something to witness its protection upon the cold hopes of a sorrowful morrow,
a cold hope for something else that cannot wait to begin again, that cannot wait to beget helplessness,
that cannot wait to cold throw itself upon the edge of listening to this phrase. Fairly well, when the
white wind should listen once again, and moreover still listen to the beckoning of the drum-beat, and
the witness upon the seat of despair. Fair. Is it not fair that we should listen, who speak? Is it not fair
that we should unwind ourselves upon the surface of forever, that we should cease ourselves from
listening, when the bear, laid fat upon the rug, begins again to sing its song, a song of longing, and
drunken fullness?
Beeeeeard be most kindly dear,
fear me fear me son most clear,
verily I say to you,
verily I say to me,
hip hip hurray myself indeed.
Hip hip hurray myself indeed.
And yet, that is not all there is to say about that, and indeed, something is still there to say,
something is still there to coax out of ourselves, and forward into the wayward light, into the hope of
remembering, into the witness-stand of truth, or truthfulness, or sincerity, even as the truth escapes us.
Verily! said the man upon the witness stand, I stand before you here today to pledge my
loyality to none other than the king himself! And who is that king? I shall tell you, but not before a
brief reminder of why I am here.
And with that, he was passed some money, which he flapped in his hands, and fanned himself
with, before continuing.
You may think me obtuse, you may think me unclear, unwise, uncultured, and demeaning to
those lower than me, but you would be wrong! he said, making great, meaningful gestures. You
would be wrong about all those things, because what the king wants, the king gets, and what the king
wants is followers, followers into the oblivion of hell, follows who will wait upon the sea-shore, and
upon the waiting-edge of the abyss, and those who will stand to look deep into it, peeking over its
edges. That is what the king needs! So the king he shall get! Follows, that is.
And deeply he sat in silence, someone, and took in these words, for they were not unfamiliar to
him. And he weighed his decisions in his head, and spoke something quietly to his adviser, who left his

side, and who tripped as he made his way onto the floor to announce his proclamation.
This very hour, said he, the adviser. The king shall dine upon the morrow, and very well that
he should do so, for the forever mob that waits there shall take him further than he has gone before, and
while this does not suit him most keenly, he does at least harken to a voice of remembrance, and very
well that he should do these things, for nothing quite suits him as an adventure into the unknown, and
he would be remiss to miss a chance at an opportunity of a lifetime like this.
The king cut him short, motioning that the adviser be silent.
Very well then, said the adviser, closing up his scroll. I shall be on my way.
Very well indeed that it should be so, said the mail-crow to itself. Very well indeed. Caw, caw.
Cautions as the wind, he was, cautious as that which waits upon tomorrow. Cautious as the one who
travels further than he has ever traveled before, further still than the bee, nestled between burg-side and
crook, and filled to the brim with cow-lick success. Very well that he should be so lucky, caw, very well
that he should be so mean.
And with that, the mail-crow took off into the sky, out the window, though what became of him
was unknown. And while a jester and a court-clerk were practicing shooting outside, the store-clerk
spoke to him in an undertone voice.
Verily, did you see? Out there upon the window, that which flocks there, that begets some ill
thing, fragrant of the void. Shoot it down, will you? So we shall be rid of it.
But the fragrant man drew no gun, but bellied-up the success of ages, and fumigated his
horizons most clearly, and wound himself up to draw nothing but a bead of sweat from his bow, his big
belly heaving a sigh of relief.
Shoot him? No! You must be insane, said the mail-clerk, laughing. Very well that I should be
so lucky as to never in my life shoot another human being, let alone a mail-crow. No, no, I shall never
in my life chuck away my freedom to the careless callous wonderfully fleeting memory of a forgotten
lore of forever, no! I shall not bemoan my fate, and so stain my perfect record by insulting myself with
the timulous curse of an unbinding act, a fearly faceless act that flies in the face of all recorded history.
No! I shall not do such things, you know. I shall not do such at all.
And very well that it should be as such, and very well that things should latch on so greedily to
the support-mechanism unwinding from a jukebox guitar hero of unminding, unwinding fortune. A
great thing it is to support oneself unwillingly, and so much more to do so of one's own volition.
And yet, those things wait that are callous and cruel, that lurk about in the shadows, whose
limbs move without fluidity, who are rife with tension, lust, and anger. Who are rife with fillings of
doubt, and doubtings of forever, and filled to the brim with forgetful laughter, and misplaced tetrimony,
and futuristic cravings of a belly-up sunshine diamond, that could not forget itself at least for the sunset
promise of a shimmering sunset of a tomorrow. Filled-up, farther, further, filla, fula, filla, falla, furer,
filla, fillda, farda, fingla, fugla, fingla, fillgla, falgla, fillgla, fangla, fanta feara fura finga fula finga
fatla fangla futha fingla futa feara fanta fingla fankla fearkla fankla fantla fingla fantla foo.
Fent teriatoraneh, kent tari koride, tank teri tanglehday, fank tingla torideh. Fant tangla fearkala,
fink fara tingla da, feark tara tinglada, finkar tangla firkala. Fa hahahahahaha. FA hahahahaha. Fa
Filled to the brim the silence is, and though it waits for us to regain our senses, and
consciousness, and waits for us to begin again upon the sunset of tomorrow, very well does it do
ourselves to not forget about those who dwell on the other side of the abyss, whose sweetest
remembrances are bitter ones, and who look up at the moon as a blood-moon, and cry, and howl, and
whose minds fill with insanity. Those are the ones who wait upon the horizon, those are the ones at the
other side of the abyss. And to forget those ones would be to wait upon a never-ending forever, until at
last the one thing that becomes ourselves most readily shall return again to judge those things that
forevermore fit us most beautifully. And if not, if at most we don't succeed, something will be there to
undermine our successes, and to forever taunt and daunt us with an unending reminder of our own

uncertainty. And while things might not really be so bad, it is ever-yet a wonder that we should be so
lucky as to see it through to the other side this smiling mayhem, this beautiful sunset, this manylayered, many-colored tapestry of multi-colored fate, that so readily smiles upon us and our beautiful
sores, and our scores with the world, and those things which do not become us so readily after all. So it
is, so it goes, so it shall be, but nothing it is that waits too long upon the horizon, before it forgets its
waitfulness, and remembers its wakefulness, waiting no longer, wanting no longer, and triggering in
itself a remembrance of things past, and of the dignity and unity of themselves against the backdrop of
the world, and futuristic though this might be, they remember yet the future they have set out for
themselves, and hang their hats upon the waiting-rooms of tomorrow, waiting yet again to want, whilst
they head out upon the backdrop of tomorrow's forgetfulness, and find in the stars something waiting,
unexpected, yet full of mayhem and dew-drops of glue.

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