As I puff away my cigarette at midnight, I’m in awe of the stars. Thousands pinned to the blackness above me and I’m saddened to know I’ll never be closer to any one of them as I am right now. Im sad to think they’re randomly positioned by a violent cosmic birth, their trajectory increasing, expanding, heading to an unkown end as does everything before and after we’re gone.
I’m sad to think there could have been a creator – who abandoned it. Did “He” create more life somewhere, or has it sprang from some long microbiotic misadventure? Are we alone. Is there a purpose. Why.
The cigarette winks out,
The stars fade from my mind.
As much as they’ll never know or care that I ever existed, I now feel the same about the universe.
Besides, stars dont have breasts.
