In five years or ten or fifty or one hundred
or maybe next week
we are forgotten and gone
our lives less meaningful in the vastness
than that of the amoeba to us
The universe does not care or notice
our brief existence
our feelings and thoughts, our acts and deeds, or hopes and dreams
without the slightest significance
to think otherwise is the height of arrogance
or narcissistic vanity
We are less than the space between the stars
of smaller import than the deepest void
lost and wavering in the death of god
and the realisation of futility
There is no greater meaning here
our reason and emotion no more than
ephemera on the solar wind
the ragged discards of empty existence
the essence of being as inconsequential
as the nothingness of abandonment to entropy

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