At the cost of displeasure of the many, he offered his truth, his Word, his virtues.

Noble would
be an understatement of that man, for all his brilliance and lovingness enshrouded a world,
eroding all our misconceptions, all our self-deceptions, all our self-enforced slavery. He was
Jiminy Jamison Jeckett.
Jiminy rose up to the bleached city under the bleached sky, sun well on its way to the peak, past
the cock’s cocking and the songbirds anthem in the morn. He picketed a finger through the loams
just outside his house and slid it west then east.
“The earth speaks,” he said. “It is tired of man’s foolishness.”
Across the gardens of knee-growing ivies and weeds he sauntered, under the shields of twisting
branches and veiling canopies he crawled, determined to step away from his life of solitude and
isolation, for he was to offer man the greatest gift of all: himself.
Following the untrodden path, treading lightly for the threat of danger lurked in the slithering
snakes and the screeching eagles, he emerged into the rambunctious city, where high-rise
buildings seemed to lose themselves in the sky, as did those who went in and out of them, in and
out by gliding, ne’er touching the reins of the ground, ne’er feeling the monotony of the soil. All
heads bent in frantic seeking, all faces contorted in displeasured nasty, they entered and exited.
“How pitiful!” Jiminy Jamison Jeckett massaged his well-worn forehead. “Indeed, how far down
has man gone underground? For how can it be that we are the only species to find rock bottom
and, instead of finding ourselves bridging towards overground, we scurry towards the pickaxe
and dig further.”
At the helm of the bastions that wished to harry themselves into the sky, fling themselves into
eternal godhood and immortality, Jiminy found the disgusting sight of a signage meant for the
promotion of this unworldly lifestyle—this unhealthy, vicious lifestyle.
And how cruel it would be that these men swallowed it all up, with not a word of hesitation, not
a raising of doubt, nor even an askance towards this derelict state of wellbeing. This discouraged
Jiminy, for he came hoping that man would somehow be able to hear, but what he saw was the
incantations of a witch in the woods who had turned the children into fallow.
However, the next sealed the fate of humanity as one kin that shall no longer receive the wisdom
of Jiminy Jamison Jeckett—only those he deemed worthy could now be taught, only those he
deemed great and deserving of salvation. He saw from his view near the forest, for the eternal
stupidity of it all made him not take even one step, men worshipping a throne that stood atop the
signage that his gaze had shifted from, merely minutes ago. Perched on the throne was that
deadliest of creatures, yet also the best of playthings and dolls: the woman. They worshipped,
crawled and fanned the woman, adorned in gold and silver, gilded with bronze and other
decorations.
“My,” Jiminy said. “It seems that this place I shall give up on. For what is more deserving of
punishment than the placing atop the hierarchy one who cannot govern truly, one who cannot
choose for the people the best of the best, and places only the value on the mediocre. A woman
does not find her happiness sitting on the throne. It is when the man wills that she finds it. He
says: I will. She says: You will.”
And so Jiminy Jamison Jeckett went on once more through the rainforest, sliding over, under,
crawling, sauntering, becoming one with the monotonous soil until another of the cities had
come to his view.