The lone figure pulls his mantle up over his face, the lower bits, leaving his eyes free to roam over the world and see his path. These are the days of his going up and leaving behind.
He passes the trail to Zoar and turns up an unmarked path. The ascent will be difficult, but any hiatus worth taking brings its challenges.
I can't convert the dog-bloggers and their fans. I can only withdraw and find my peace among the falcons and the raggedy mountain goats.
I turn back to look over the world I leave behind. Bogs, fens, sloughs, muddy puddles. Off in the distance are the smoldering ruins of my town, set ablaze by the people running riot. Halfway between is a priapic figure frozen in salt, all that remains of my one-time friend, Garrett Al.
The figure pulls his mantle up again, and, because it keeps slipping down, takes an extra moment to pick the lint out of the Velcro fasteners so it will stay up. There's also a drawstring around the hood that he cinches. This is a foul land, full of bubbling pitch, acrid sulfuric smoke, wasting decay, and saltpeter. He must ascend. I'll repeat that, he must!
Ascending, I rise above it all, and finally the sense of peace dawns on me. This hiatus is more than time off; it's a time for awakening, above the din and roar of those on the wide road leading to destruction. Perhaps I shall return one day to look for survivors. Perhaps they will have found a cure for the disappointment of glory. Perhaps I will be named Blogger of the Year by someone with credibility in that field.
For these moments he sits alone, alone except for a falcon and a raggedy mountain goat. The falcon soars over head and brings back a piece of fish for him to eat. This goes on for many a day. Finally he has enough dried fish skeletons he's able to fashion a comb with which he can groom the raggedy mountain goat. He does groom it and now it may be termed simply a mountain goat.
Two of them share an oversize sleeping bag, he and the mountain goat keeping each other warm at night -- just warm, nothing untoward or scandalous whatsoever. In part this is because he's strict about not letting him eat any horny goat weed. The worst that happens is the goat makes some unconscious pelvic thrusts while dreaming. Eventually the man will see if UPS delivers up there and get another sleeping bag.
The falcon takes his perch at the crest of my pillow, a beautiful figure, like The Maltese Falcon.
Up here in the mountainous regions, I am at a high peak, too high for mortals. So I must go down somewhat, and look for a cave with internet access. There the three of us will live, where we can spend our hiatus in comfort, eating fish, grooming the goat, sleeping in our sleeping bag -- plural "bags," hopefully very soon -- going to the bathroom in our three very different ways*, and, of course, blogging the deeper matters of life.
*I need to train the falcon to face forward on my pillow, and the goat needs to learn the value of clean, dry bedding.