inspiration + perspiration = invention :: T. Edison ::
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Flies buzz in the lamplight,
moths attracted to the flame,
as the dust and stink of thirteen bodies crammed together
permeates.
It'd be awkward to share the space
if they weren't so used to the boat by now.
At least there are no waves here.
Whispers, shuffles,
a sneeze,
laughter, grumbles, scratching,
the hum of waiting, wondering how to begin,
who will get them started.
It's a tradition,
a moment preserved and handed down through time,
one holy day set against the tapestry of twilight.
The story's so familiar they could all recite it in their sleep:
sacrifice, slavery, and salvation.
Symbols of the past and the present.
Few dare whisper what the future will do,
save the old platitudes.
But that's about to change,
because just as they're ready to wine and dine,
and complain about taxes,
and share a quick word,
and fade back into the life they've come to know,
it's all shaken up again,
by one person,
one man,
one.
He who dares to tell them more than they asked,
and proclaims in words to be carved in wood and stone,
born of the divine but seasoned with humanity:
My body.
My blood.
It's yours.
Remember that.