the fragility of things
I personally think that the terribly limited time allotted to living things is a terrible insult, and that the world would be a better place if everyone was asked by procedures as correct as possible when and if would like to return part of the unstoppable flow of things. I am not saying
trivial or selfish feelings for the well-justified preference for immortality, but far more altruistic considerations above all - believe me - a practical nature.
My thoughts all'incalcolabile multitude of innocent and defenseless creatures, devoid not only of that indefinable spark of self-consciousness that we call thinking, but even a very simple central nervous system. Not of a type of cognitive ability, the ability to create smaller and philosophies religions that do accept their inevitable demise, imagine paradise packed, Uri rave redemption.
Of those innocent victims who see disintegrate under the eyes and the delicate architecture of celluline vital humors that had learned to call Life.
I speak - and my hand is trembling on the keys to the dismay - my little map of marjoram fall under the destructive fury of entropy, of my beautiful lavender now beyond any possibility of care of my carnivorous plants reduced to keep pathetic caricatures of leftover salad picked up from the garbage.
Ah! What illusion Spring, make plans, buy potting soil, pots get under the illusion of perpetual bloom. What terrible joke the summer, all perfumes, sprouts and basil that you do not time to make the pesto, which are already grown back. All dust, everything went irreversibly.
Life is nothing but a trinket given to children to be immediately resumed. That leaves empty vessels that do not know where to put. The thymus is not doing well, but maybe he resists. Fuck
get myself to buy the jars of dried spices. Even if they know all
invariably oregano.
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