A thin string from me to the ceiling, I may be swinging slightly in a dark space.
I can't see the floor, slightly sickening. Quite some time ago, days perhaps weeks, I heard the last cry of joy. Joy faded away, a sound too faint to hear, gone now.
The ground may not be there. If I had a pair of scissors perhaps I'd enjoy the falling. We cling to the hope of things, and rationally, delving deep the pointlessness seems the only certainty and gradually the inescapable becomes inevitable. The insane apparently rational.
Vertigo, that's something to hold on to, let's rejoice. I want to cut the string if only if weren't for the planet below - just to keep on falling.
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