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I am Pedro Escadero.
 Aspects of my reporting have been subjective in recent years.
As chief escritoire, psicólogo, and proscribere to Parks and Wildlife, I explain canyon psychology upon its victims. How else can science be known? I probe the down and dark patterns of Mather Point.
First, it is in nature that things must fall. A pedestrian who speeds up Meteor Crater will fall to a vertigo of wrong conclusions. A precursor of wrongs, this doo-wop summons all our tribe upon the verge. Were the Canyon to cry out, what would it say, the rocks unpaved?
But before the answer, uniformed firemen race down in blue. They dismount trucks, descend like shadows on ropes.
Our analysis, this metaphor, forthcoming.
Please do not ignore.
We shall explain the impulse verge.
We prove that She alone, third feminine, recusant female, gave psyche to our canyon.
Remember that projection.
But He whose reputation has suffered, he whom you think a bifurcate of all that lives, a masculine odor, reflects the tide of night and day.
Thus the impulse both transfers, projects.
It is twice soulful and full of grief, that bottom, sin fondo.
Of course we do not think she feels good pulling down. Down and down.
Sure, we get paid for it.
He mirrors those rides, flights beyond price, whose drops of fun from treetops took a letting go.
This caused the paradox of which we speak: THE CRISIS IS THE LETTING GO. . . .
The apogee first pulls you down. Then in the flow, the range of motion, what signs, counselors upon the way, alert us to let go, let go?
Alas, such trails erode a wink. In the world to come it is too late to say they fire back up. They shrink with each atrocious fling.
We summon geology to explain, order the assumptions. Affirm what all have come to know, what mountains see, the fall of rocks to sand.
That sand, particulate, is our triumvirand! So turning poleless we know it feels. WE FALL TO SEE IF WE CAN DO IT, to survive the trouble we have caused.
This is understood by the Empathy Boys who rush themselves to the brink and over.
This is understood by our government.
How else explain the public haste to wily fact?
It is a Neolithic turf war up there behind Hopi House. They tee up and drive out.
So in the parlance of the matter we get down to science.
Our research shows the canyon rims portend a kiss.
The canyon is half lip, the bottom.
The "rims" above must seek the schists, the teeth submerged in magma red.
Seeker on edge feels this the more, works in quandary to position, for who but he should marry that wide pose with sky?
How does it feel for such dim psych when sky lips tread the beams of rock? Jealousy is just like art. We can fly, transport. We rock.
That is what they think, but failing lift dismount the rocks.
And light pours down, the long way down Colorado. From the burst of pithy navel to the reach of her long loins. There is no surviving.
The good that comes from this is now applied from nursery rhymes to Keats. But how many have heeded?
I wanted
an eider down puff
for my dolly
of very soft stuff.
But turn a moment from this pathos, souls. What of those millions, who come to edge themselves? Why has no Park Servant, harness tied, jerked back, forever to suborn the edge, recuerdo de memoria! where silence in the ears is consolation, but a living tear?
"Purest of heart! Thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!"
How can they ask? What gratitude from desconsolado, the failed Parks pilgrim returned to every day, mere bubble at the brim? Pero qué inaprecio de misma lástima!
So take into the air one quiet breath and let it out.
That is a help for pain.
Thanks now to the government which licensed this estudio.
That much remains the same.
Thanks to all the patient insights offered heathen.
Come down and hear us at El Tovar this season.
For then we shall be truly one.
The world will lie before us as a land of dreams.
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