the batter in the mixing bowl

Using age-old metaphors, I speak. Man has been cast into the outer darkness of his own singular individual thought and tries in vain to recapture the common language of the Babylon Babble-On Tower, when all spoke as one and communication was instantaneous. At that time, man was a giant hive of open buzzing communion with no thought. No thought. Pre-logical. Participation mystique. A buzzing hive of endeavor that looked to build a tower, a giant termite mound to the heavens. And once again, as in the Eden Fall, the heavens said we cannot let them do this. And knocked man back down into the mixing bowl from which he was trying to climb -- now put on reverse spin, a paradoxical mixing bowl of separation. Each now thinks their own thoughts, marching to a different language from all others. Knocked down twice. Kicked out of Eden. Tower destroyed. The batter is still up with two strikes and a lot of balls. What will be the next pitch? Do we hear it coming even now? As we stand at home and look to knock that sucker right out of the park and into overdrive.