the parameters of the Earth kept changing,
and i never even questioned.
it's not a matter of half-full or half-empty,
that glass is just fucking dirty.

and so what if i make my bed before i sleep in it?
revert back to my natural medium,
a shape in the womb,
all musing is interrupted.
as i wonder,
where was i?

and as fist meets bare ground,
i reach into this world,
and shake hands with Earth.

to find comfort in truth of meaninglessness?
ironically,
it urges me to take my own life.

here i am.
and for what?