Let Us Slowly Tumble.

In the desperate slow tumble that are our lives,

We can do nothing but cling,

To tiny moments of solidarity,

That tumble along with us,

To try mask the truth.

The truth is these things,

There is no solidarity,

Even our mighty earth,

Who breaths and shakes,

Who knows nothing of humanity,

Is only a spec in an endless void.

And not the humdrum everyday endless,

That will eventually end after all that now is,

Is forgotten,

The type of endlessness that is infinite,

And doesn't know what an end is.

The meaning of everything is impossible to know,

And not the everyday humdrum impossible,

That can actually be achieved,

By working a thousand slaves for a thousand years,

And making the kind of technology,

That anyone alive would call magic,

The kind of impossible that the imagination,

breaks upon, like ice upon concrete.

And the truth is, is that everything ends,

And love is only an illusion,

And that lives are a cheap stage trick,

And that we are but a brief spark

And the greatest tragedies, songs, and feats of engineering,

All the noblest sentiments, and funniest moments,

Can only be swallowed up by the oncoming black.

And knowing all this makes me feel good.