Solitude. Silence. Waiting in a creaking corpse, cosseted in familiar, dreams of security. Why must there be more? This is what we have come to, through all the efforts and struggles — restarting every day, hoping for new outcomes. Satisfaction is a myth — a false promise, designed by an alien malevolence to fuel insanity. It is how we grow, like a cancer, in the straggling mulch that crusts our burning sphere. We know it is a lie — that it will end in slow decay, or fiery violence, only for those abandoned to cycle through the same desperations. We battle entropy, assured of pre-ordained defeat because we have nothing better to do. Like starlight reflected in slowly drying puddles, we lurch, this way and that, seeking the love of a poet, in a world inhabited only by the blind. We think the one-eyed man will rule, but we know in our hearts we would hang him for witchcraft. Wisdom is a dish served stale.