within us lies something so resplendent that it appears
void, an endless nihility, from which your singularity is grown

We all know the trope of nothing becoming something, a crane lamenting to the orbs above, flowers opening with the fall.
You've seen the time lapses, you know the spin around us. Yet nothing could be farther from our reality. We weren't built to be nothing, we weren't built from nothing. Lachesis draws for us, but her luck is strong. There isn't reason to believe otherwise.

Enveloping our corporeal flesh, resolving away our dissolve, filling us up from the outside and pooling into the hollows of our eyelids, we forget to find wisdom in emptiness
Lost inside the flow of time, hands outstretched, fingers melting through our friends, our parents, our lovers, the human population revolves around revolutions, anchored in place by only the weakest force in the universe
Held down by the stuff that composes planets, moons, stars, all pointless to us

The only thing that matters lays at our feet, trod upon day and night, it lays in our chests, wrenched from our chests, lays at our feet, and is trampled.