What comes
next is often up for discussion, as minds work in mysterious ways – and seldom
in sync. Harmony? Coordination? How can you measure grief?
In the end,
does it even matter? Because you have my trust.
Like a man
exiting a tunnel, stepping into the morning light, to face the clear sky of
green, the pestilence having ruined the landscape to unrecognizable forms – and
he whispers:
And crawling on the planet's face, some insects
called the human race. Lost in time, and lost in space. And meaning.
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