“What then is the Unknown? It is the limit to which the Reason repeatedly comes.”Sören Kierkegaard, Philosophical Fragments

We’re fallin’. We’re fallin’ so fast that stones become rivers and the rivers become stone. Where are we now?

Call us Nobody. Though it ain’t our Christian name, it’ll do. Here we are. Hot dust screamin’ in the wind. That ruffled Nevada honey-colored sand blowing through our eyes. Red clay pillars stand handcrafted by the man that guides the russet tumbleweeds from one side of the stage to the next. Our hat sliding slick cold oil shadows over our thin face. This cotton cloak should tell us how long we’ve been here, but it doesn’t. A weight we carry in our leather-lined boots, whose silver glints sparkle and jingle. Our strides are hungry. We’re whistlin’ a meager tune to match the mighty sun. Cracked plants scratchin’ at our feet give us the path towards the old town’s street. Almost noon of the highest order, but fire won’t leave our judge’s barrel, not yet. We’re still lookin’ for the wall, the limit. This folded thick fleece blanket of an endless desert plain is all we’ve hopelessly seen. If the man we seek and the wall ain’t here, well, then we’d be able to give this star-spangled country the cosmos, and we’d keep on fallin’.

We’re walkin’ towards the small town made from bricks of dust breathed into by man. What fountain of alcohol stands before our ripped lips, as if flowing miraculously from the stone struck. This small spike of civil planning is a magnet and compass for those who’ve wandered for years, like ourselves. An oasis which encircles an old arid tree with its saddening stature that wasn’t present in its past. We walk through the saloon doors. We’re lookin’ for Ol’ Edmund H. M. Luther. A real white cloaked fire-breather. Not one of those demons that fell from heaven after this nation’s civil war, but one that was always on the outside. Our gunpowder been lightin’ his path as we’ve led ‘im on a merry chase. Where to begin? Were did we begin? Every life we’ve lived seems to be at the end of his flappin’ bone-white duster, while his single workin’ eye checkin’ for our black sails upon the desert waves. We reveal his poster we found nailed to the shanty door of the church, the poor torn thing. Ragged fragmented soul. He’s much more resilient than his wanted poster, we swear. He’s a fuckin’ walkin’ paradox. Weavin’ in and outta iron bars like a snake lookin’ for his own tail outta hunger. They point us to the wall, says will find ‘im there. We take one more for the road. Payin’ with our Fistful of Dollars. Whiskey, and with it the sun shootin’ down our throat from its almost-high-noon-position.

Like a bullet from the barrel of our own revolver, we leave this town behind. As we walk, we sing a little tune, an ode to the wall:

Many run like water at its heady height
what they know not is its truest hidden might.
The land beyond, it may not be.
Many will waste their lives to see.
A man will say he’s positive, but in the end all there’ll be
in the form is only negativity.

The wind is in our sails now, boys. Our cloak whippin’ forward; with us, its strong and narrow mast. We carry on; we’re on the right path with this Hades heat rainin’ down. A wave of dirt we pass over to gain the glimpse of our graveyard just outside the town. Each carved obelisk resisting the wind’s cuttin’ fist. Here Lies Our Mother’s grave, her particular stone comin’ about to our navel as we pass. Too tired a soul to stay in this world. The statement scratched solidly in the stone reads: “For the sinews no longer hold the flesh and the bones together, but the strong might of blazing fire destroys these, as soon as the life leaves the white bones, and the spirit, like a dream, flits away, and hovers to and fro.” Never could we grasp what she was always on about. She slipped from our dirt-scraped hands before she could tell us where we came from. Aw well, the clock still ticks for us. Each tick a footstep, and with each footstep the heat rises. Hot distorted air becomin’ more the invader of our sweatin’ skin. Further into this jungle of nothin’. Wouldn’t ya know it, the sun still ain’t piercin’ down from its highest point. Almost noon, almost. What enters our eyes now is no longer a landscape, only two infinite colors meetin’ at the sharpest of horizons. The bottom, an Ecstasy of Gold, and the top, an azure of potential. Strokes of scraggly bushes make clouds of themselves once they’ve passed the threshold.

We blinked twice and we missed it. We almost skimmed the brim of our hat on its heaven high scarlet rocks. It appeared in front of us as if we were reachin’ the part of a story that was still bein’ written. On each of our sides, the wall stretches out into its infinite apex. We’re marvelin’ at it now. What fine, terrifyin’, natural splendor. Its rough ribs, like gashes, pillars of the earth. Some myth about a bear trying to scratch its way to freedom, the Indians say. We gaze at the archetype like we’ve seen it in all our dreams and  BANG snaps the air and a chip of wall flicks at our face from the released rock. Smells of gunpowder. A warnin’ shot from a man who needs no introduction. Outta nowhere he appears, too. This heat burying both of us, an intoxicant, makin’ us feel bigger than we are. Where lies the boundary between our skin and this fire? Before us, a man stood, he couldn’t fear the wall (how could he? With only one eye there ain’t no depth perception). An eye for an eye, he says over the bubblin’ air. A duel with our back to the wall. Three eyes, each with its ivory white.

Morricone crying in the wind. Both our hands filled to burst with potential energy. This unknown force keepin’ our hands from the handles of our messengers is too fragile. All three are breathin’; Us, the Wind, and Him. One gunshot, two bullets, all three piercin’. We’re still both fallin’ like two stones into the river, two portraits-of-Lincoln on our eyes.