Mirab, his sails unfurled.
Shaka, when the walls fell.
And all this never knowing?
Superstitions and silly gestures.
Warding off infinite sadness
for as long as it may be held at bay.
Or rather:
isn't it funny that we have a Ms. Universe,
but not a Ms. Solar System or Ms. Galaxy?
Why is it so easy to skip to the inevitable conclusion?
Why is it so easy to predict?
Curse this human mind with its dire thoughts.
Curse this will that fights inevitability.
When I wake up tomorrow,
I will be older, colder, and cursed.
Life will fall on my shoulders,
my knees will buckle.
I will laugh one more time,
I will turn to dust:
Blown away over the edge.
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