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Words tend to make the fresh loaf of meaning stale. The dictionary flaps open and each word reads "arbitrary." As such, we are immersed in a sea of chaos, honing in on mere bubbles like an infant would her mother's tit. The waves beat into a foam of momentary information, puns, or serendipity. The sizzle sounds like a wave saying thank you to itself: thank you for creating distinction out of all this lack of direction. We are distinction. We are clumps of information slapping arbitrary labels upon ourselves like gold paint.
Gold paint rubs up against gold paint. Our interactions are varying degrees of lies. Despite any emerging melodies of penalty whistles, I (you) continue forth. I am but a series of masks Eternity has chosen to disguise me with. I appear but do not is for there is or appears nothing but exceptions. I throw the prince's crown into the lava pit. I giggle at the concept of immortality or infallibility, for only a funny wave would seek to dethrone the sea.
Instead, I seek the Reaper's crown, the crown that transforms every moment into a rose, ever-budding, ever-withering with beauty. Then every moment is a canvas, dance floor, musical instrument, or all of these at once. I dance along the most absurdly out of the way path straight into my own coffin. The lid is Eternity's door in disguise. Entering, I make the "e" in "end" an "a."
