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It's always blank when it begins, a canvas vast and white, oblivion's twin, awaiting the winding twining darkness of words or will. Yet in that void a vision, of what isn't though what shall, and whether a pathetic scrawl or a marvel the will to create exists. The meaning of life isn't a means to an end, it's an attempt to end the end. Isn't that strange? I think it is.
It strikes me sideways, lazy and content like a sunning snake, cruel and savage like hailstorms or hurricanes, the so called soul laid by the cold way side on the road to destiny, from the ignition of a rocket that landed boots on the moon to the first fire ever lit by intent.
Why write this? The sun keeps rising, and I keep on falling down.
Rar. Isn't that right, Mr. Fox?