I never fail to revel in beauty, in naked skies tattered with cloudy lies, or fresh bloom laying pink and still in the afternoon. And then I almost always never fail to ask why? when? how? or who? Why is it that it's us who get to witness this wonder of a world and not another, hellish and forsaken doom? But, then again why not?
It vexes me to bits, it does, how, in its minute perfection, it made room for us only to sweep us back one day into the void called history and so into the ignorance of doom.
Then, why bother with a rain of hollow questions when now is so fleeting and forver is doom? Why dance with the gods in sorrow if the skin is aching for the chill and the waking of rains in sweet June? Why not live a wet and blind existence with every wake of the moon?