Together we would lie within the sinewy fingers. The abysmal dimensions of human consciousness, the cries of twisted limbs, the laughter of twisted genius� It all existed within the figs that matured on the branches.

We would escape our conventions, our predispositions. We would escape our fleeting moments. We would escape our melancholy. And every now and then it would pour down on us with the rain.

Climbing trees is not without risk. Our fig tree is ruddled with memories. We would extract water from the figs and cleanse our wounds.

In spite of this, there are some wounds we cannot heal.

As time unfolded and swept us reluctantly into its reserves, the branches shortened and our stories became abridged. They surrendered to our weight, victims of gravity.

We no longer climbed trees. They were of no importance. A tree looks like a miserable misshapenness next to a man's own mountain.

We began our quest for the summit. To each his own. I never saw Isaiah again. I only saw the fleeting moments. I only wanted what I was unable to control within the clutches of my sinewy fingers. It took me two lifetimes to realize the folly embedded in human instinct. It took me this long to realize that, at the top of every mountain worth climbing, there is a fig tree.

And so, my last pursuit is a riddle. And I will get there someday.

But it's a long way from here to infinity.

They say the devil took him by force. His sinewy fingers grasped the loop of his garment and struck him to the ground. And there he lay, pointing in all directions. Enjoy the dead boy.

I often contemplated death thereafter, looking down from the entanglement of branches. It's funny how a dead boy looks like a miserable misshapenness next to a fig tree.

Crushed by his own weight, his neck was cradled by the soil. A little blue-eyed boy. The dead little blue-eyed boy. The figs tasted bittersweet, like they had been left in the sun too long. But they were tender, and I bit into the flesh as I had done before, climbing trees in Isaiah's memory. Eating his flesh.

What a quaint thing it must be to die.

The fall killed him. How fascinated I was. And how I loved Isaiah. But I was not saddened, for I knew he didn't mind. He just wanted me to see. Enjoy the dead boy.

I wonder what his last thoughts were. I wonder how long it seemed to take for Isaiah to die. He was graceful. A beautiful dead boy. It could not have taken more than a fleeting moment for him to hit the ground.

But it's a long way from here to infinity.

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