The dancer is doomed, he'll never write tunes. To parasite the magic off of other men's moves. He'll stand there all day. tapping , jumping and sway. But when his maker comes knocking , how will he pay. He'll ride the wave of the masses , while none he surpasses. Content with
...his lot while the collective outclasses. The dancer is doomed, to never go down, in histories annals, not original or profound. To merely exist, a societal cist. Hangs on to the coat-tails of a protagonist. And with his boat rises, tides of much greater men..
A man, 29 years old, fat.
Sits alone, drunk at a table ,
In his underwear,
Snackbox grease on his fingers and face,
Too greasy to wipe the tears from his eyes.
The Universe began. Stars collapsed. Their cosmic entails hung for eons drifting in cold space. They collapse again into smaller things. Complicated things. These things replicate. Evolve. Become aware. And in time fulfill the true cosmic purpose. They send/recieve emails.
Future children:
What was it like when Congress got stormed?
Future me:
I told you not to disturb me while I'm hooked up to my VR!! God, I wish I got that vaccine so I couldn't have kids!! Piss off to your micro-room and study your Amazon employees manual, you lazy cretin.