Jarod in Flux.

Life keeps happening. Jarod Reactor is still in the mix.
Reacting.
Life keeps happening. It won't let you stand still. It's a swirling mess, a cacophony of chaos.
Chaos.
Maybe he stacked those bricks up too high - although it really wasn't high, at all. Others have erected taller monuments. Churches. Obelisks. Tombstones. Maybe he had slime for mortar. Maybe he used the workers from the tower of Babel. A babbling crew of sun bleached spectres.
"Pass that trowel, Shem."
"I am but a ghost. I have no form. And I can not understand your tongue."
Chaos.
The sun remained when the rest of the sky fell - but, his construction did not. Brick by brick it collapsed. There arose a cloud of dust that eclipsed the sun, which, while still intact, was rendered impotent (at least for the moment). The rubble from the destruction threatened to bury him. But, it did not bury him. Our Jarod is alive!
Meanwhile, the universe expands and time remains a mystery. Let me repeat that: Time is a mystery.
"Let's make order of this chaos!" That's Jarod's rallying cry.
Life is chaos, Jarod Reactor. Chaos is life.
Nervous and righteous. Angst-ridden and super fly. Buttered up and laid to the side.
Stoned, blown and renowned. (Make those words rhyme. You can do it!)
Pick up that cast aside trowel and create. You have to create, Jarod.
Memories of fever dreams - these are tales that can't be told. Not with words. Not easily. These are the totems he has to create.
Creation from chaos.
A bucket of stars was thrown upon him. He is blessed now. Blessed by light. Illuminated like a fallen angel.
Create!
All of that inner turmoil - that cup of iron filings and molasses - has to be dealt with. Do your thing, baby. Do your thing!
Ingest sensually and digest explosively.
Birds in cages. Pictures in frames. Words on the page. Blood on the roof tops.
Heaven remains yours, minus a bucket of stars. What are you going to do with it?