You are reading these words,
these words that I wrote,
this creation of mine.
And yet I do not own it,
the words that you read
are a choice of chance.
My self is amazed by this,
and I wonder if I created it,
and how it was ordered
from the chaos in my head.
Maybe my self is a reflection
of this randomness,
and the self an identity,
Of chance.
And so is yours,
I envy the randomness,
the randomness of chance,
and the life that is not mine.