There was a little spot of green, and I sat me down there. The minute I did, it gave away under me and I fell down and kept falling. I fell asleep, to be woken up from time to time by others falling with me, who would wake up too and needed to talk. We talked about the most inane of things. The rocks and edges sticking out looked inviting, but no one grabbed them, since no one was panicked. (It's a good thing they didn't, for their arms would have been ripped off). So we fell and then forgot all about the fact that we had started falling at some time and after several years down the line, we thought this is how we'd always been: we'd been born, inexplicably, falling, and we'd die falling too. Then, a few heretics went ahead and postulated that there was something called 'a surface' on which we would someday land. Theories and tirades and diatribes raged while the same bland rocks and edges passed us by. Now we have two factions: the Surface Huggers and the Free Fallers. At least it makes falling that much more intriguing. Every day they come up with a new angle to the problem. I've never revealed that it is perhaps only I who remember that little spot of green which had given away under me.