Universe

The universe in its entirety is made of us, Sparks, fizzy, fiery embryos, entwining with one another; the conception of galaxies-- becoming, growing into constellations that we see in the night.

Forget Rhyme or reason and the common, vulgar ubiquitous prose of the human tace-- Happiness is unfathomably tragic. Chase it, and you will find emptiness, Find it, and feel full for a minute--and when it leaves you are lost, lost, lost.

But "Lost" is neither a destination or a means of travel, Or a direction, but a strange limbo; like a hotel room rented just to spend the night, A pitstop on the way to somewhere. We are always 'right,'-- yet, paradoxically, not 'left'-- and Such is the way we are 'lost.'

Metaphysical reasoning would like us to believe that the universe has a purpose, fleeting as it may be, Unsolvable by the geniuses of our time, incomprehensible by the world at large-- and so The Earth continually tilts; tilts its head questioningly at the human race as we ponder our purpose.