Your place in the world is concrete.

It is flesh and bone like the dog at your side,

but with dreams and ideas to realise

(and you did realise them).

You’ve created supernatural means to an end

to any given task.

You fly across the globe in a single day to escape

that climate which makes you so miserable.

Read ancient texts – on demand – by virtue of

being bored.

Create music and art to make thousands of eyes explode

the same way yours did back then.

Contemplate life and death and why with strangers

and stranger still,

you’ve created this myth of the individual so strong that

even when the days end,

and your body stops,

you nestle into this ball of moss which dangles amongst the stars

and your final night is spent


The planet rocks you gently into slumber


‘You are the by-product that refused to believe.

You are beautiful, but you are not the whole.’

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