I am nothing if not a puddle of flesh
a vat of fresh blood
a knot of veins
what a gift, carefully packaged and assembled
meaningless
nonetheless, I am not my skeleton
I intend to shed this skin someday
until then I am merely here
a simple existence in a world of greed and guilt
on a hopeless search for purpose,
self-importance
that is most certainly lurking in a dusky, damp cave
at the end of the world