In the bosom of your mother, a lugubrious thought expanded another night, another century. Nascent like a tiny sprout vulnerable in a desert of privation, you crawled a journey, of faith and deliverance. To pontificate the darkest hours. . . you stood by the chair. Slowly in a libertine manner, myth be told, you sat and conquered spaces in the phlegmatic ardour of flies. . .of tiny beings who must remember the peripatetic slump to no where.
The rest is history. They say.
To presage the quake of your existence thereafter is forbidden, just to understate the whole lie of it. The vacuum in the story is the senescence.
Then blank spaces to mark the pulchritude, the height of the matter.
C'est la vie. For, another day in your life, your ephemeral life.