a man crested his hill, he viewed the world around him. never before had he seen such ferociousness.

he was viewing something no souls had ever encountered. he was, for the first time in his life, the first.

he fell to his knees— water crashed below, as the tangles of pine closed in on his frail form.

he believed the world built this view for him, and only him. only— the world built this view for no reason.

the serendipity of the hill he collapsed on was marveled by the man. he wept. alone, in a world only he would ever see exactly as is.

cries to the heavens were silenced. his own drive to rise again fell off the cliff face. he simply watched.

vines creeped up his torso. snakes nestled under his legs. his hair melted with the spring thaw, then washed away with the rain.

his eyes never faded. his mind never dulled. he simply sat and waited. he waited for god to extend His hand.

what else should one do in front of the sublime?