The anachronism of my existence plays on the lips of the world like a kiss.
It tingles and tantalizes, eliciting illicit pleasure that ooze from the cracks in
the Delphic construct of the cosmos.
An idiomatic expression taken literally, spoken by a curled tongue, a rhetorical
question unable to inspire thought.
The unadulterated passion of Life strokes the frigid perfume of Death as they
lay tangled in the profane webs of evolutional matrimony.
Whilst we sit and ponder our own insignificance, in the cosmic latte of the
unknown void, a tall spoon stirs together another swirl of life leaving us feeling
explicably trivial.
On a small planet in a small solar system revolving around a small star on the
outer arm of an inconsequential galaxy do not linger on your misfortune;
marvel instead at the sheer miracle of your creation. The odds were and never
will be in your favor on a planet where your very presence is superfluous.
Ponder your insignificance and wonder at the spoon that stirred you into
existence.