Coffin walls entomb the womb, enbalming oils adorn the flesh, akin to placenta scapegoating sins via the one-who-Walked. A determined stride which inserts the Senses inside spaces, inside Mind, outside paradoxical self-assurance. A true tale, curious to the American condition, placed Eleanor Markham in such a space. She fell out of consciousness and the townsfolk equating Self with Waking-Life, buried her alive. She awoke inside her void, lacking access to light, accessed her area with touch, gathered splinters like tally marks and feared the scents of soil.
Passersby reported scratching noises, but reality is relative to experience. When they felt a tepid breeze and observed tree branches bounce about, determined the scraping was wood relfexing flagellation. No person could fathom that Eleanor was alive and well, reducing her fingertips to nubs as she clawed against her home.
Neuromarketing abides by skeletal diligence, abound in the patterning instinct. A narrative formula that suggests the ends justify the means.
What does the skeleton of Eleanor Markham tell us about humanity?
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