Essay nr.2:

Guiltily, Mort Jackson eyes over his wife. It had been some time since their eyes had last met; vanity is a word for the frail – none more than Mr. & Mrs. Jackson. Those dull, lifeless eyes are void of the shining which had once enthralled Mort who, then at the might and full potential of having reached legal age, was eager to cover them with his manliness. “Shine” is not kept forth unto the years’ passing. It’s as such a guarantee as vascular illness. Why would Mort, consistent male, masteroftheuniverse, have instead the gaze of guilt in his? What foul play by Nature on such a commanding creature-God. Mort is baffled, as guilt is spread now across his face, thick drops of sweat being actually showered from within, masteroftheuniverse in a microcosmos, eyes as white as dead skin, skin moist and itchy, adrenaline is playing its part, but guilt will not be subsided.
His legs must be bent, a chair! Alas, poor Mort, now mere dust at the sight of those dull and void eyes of his wife, how tragic, how humane. To never be under control that is the real thing, to be swept in waves to the oblivion of the self, to never merge, to understand naught, bliss.
Eyes ever closer, throat ever tighter; gasping for air, he reaches for the Mrs’ hands, something, but it’s no use, there he goes, down.
What’s there to think about in a time like this, grasping at one’s throat while kicking about in the ground? Odd as it seems, Mort’s mind is not unplugged. Rushing dreams pour through his mind’s eye, vivid and disturbing, but absolutely true. An unruly class of apes living on luxury quarters, Sodom and Gomorrah revisited in all the top tourist destinations, and a great mistrust between all the different Peoples. Into the future he goes, a great racial war, the suicide babies, the christian sodomites, the muslim harlots, the scum of the earth in primordial broth, as though the Great Satan himself is the master mixer, and there is just an overwhelming feeling that seems to unite just about everybody to commit mass murder, in accordance to the latest fashion.
All the while Mrs. Jackson has turned Mort’s body downward, and slipped the knife into his hand, taking the recommended hygienic guidelines for the appearance being suicidal.
Consequence was minimal - she would never be happy.

End.