There must have been something so absolute about it, so certain about it, when he looked down.

A 54 metre drop. 110,000 cubic metres of water plunging over the edge each minute. The froth and rage of water as it hits the Niagara River.

You throw yourself into that abyss expecting nothing other than obliteration.

How does it feel then I wonder, to plummet headlong into that tumult, only to find yourself bobbing back up again? To realise, with every gulp of air, that this most certain and spectacular attempt at self annihilation has failed?

Do you rejoice that fate has decided you will live? Do you stand up and experience some strange epiphany, some glorious, reinvigorating engagement with life?

Or do you find, in this failure, merely the terrible confirmation that all your efforts in this life really are for nought?