the well

I see it now in their dead eyes. In the prying of cold, hard fingers. Disillusionment sits on the throne and we bow down weekly. I knew a musician who tried to escape it. Science, reason, and progress he trumpeted every evening over cigars and glass upon glass of fetid wine. Yes, his notes would travel and move our souls, but it was the movement of a corpse in a river. We were impassive. Our greater senses lifted high into the sky but we were oblivious to the pleasure. Damn the fools that kept their spirits. Damn the well.