We’re pretty well grounded. Nonetheless, when Thor starts heaving out big ones from low hanging pyro-cumulus, slamming them out, god muscle to iron on iron, hammer on anvil, what horse will wear the shoe he fashions? What link in the chain he forges will ever snap?
And he’s heaving them now at 8,000 feet. Big bolts of electromagnetic force. The pure thing. The thing itself. Das Ding an sich. No additives. No preservatives. Just huge bolts of energy. Positive. Negative. The yin and the yang. The dark and the light.
Not to mention the rain. Heavy sheets of it pelting the windows. And ice chunks. And hail.
And all of it shouting, you fools, you don’t belong on this rocky knoll. You humans, with your contour maps, your compasses and comforters, your down sleeping bags.
I can take you down any time I choose. Blow you beyond smithereens. You wouldn’t even know it.
But I keep you around for amusement, for my entertainment. What fun, after all, would it be up here without you?