On Narrative: An Exposition for Future Minds
Everything is at a standstill, but one might squinty-eyed-ly discern it all as motion. A motion like the staggered pace of the last to leave. These heralds of lineages of the greatest nation's best and brightest, baby-brained buffoons and their sweat glistening, tattooed-scowls chiseled deep into their face, nay, where their soul ought be, due to the hard-lived humbugging, heretical handshaking, and heavy-hitting hurrahs of their dearly depraved death; that is, to say they were alive would be a mockery of the wonder of living, natural things.
The "beasts" have uncorked from their fathers' reserve. In their celebration of the good old fraternity of farcical fecundity, they smear greases, gasses and glazes from whatever poor creature constituted today's four-course carcass. Festivities of profligacies are made all the more intimate as rotund fingers fumble upon the last trembling buckle on respected girdles, which always lie hidden behind fine satins and velvets as a means of upholding the shell of civility, esteem and luxurious etiquette. Of course, these types know what’s best for themselves, as it was dictated to each nobleman by the director of his father's estate. They were born of another day, a day of "national heroes" and "war heroes" and all those paradoxical cowboy, western ideologies, john wayne-is-tic
reagan-o-philiacs salute in solemnity, sincerely from the center of their substantially voided souls.
With frivolity and justice, on call.
• see also reframing
There can be no change in the means by which a dinosaur exists: their place in our world is a memory, our accustomed imagining of the majesty and splendor these creatures must have lived within, a colorful luscious landscape.
This is a daydream which we sympathetically indulge for their liveliness and our Downfall. They serve us no purpose. Their mere existence is allowed and upheld by us, they entirely depend upon us to keep them as they are.
Why not change our imaginings? Why allow the perpetuation of a world in which we pretend they lived? The dinosaurs had their turn to exist, failed horribly, and we keep them alive?
What cowards are we?
Toward Meaning From Life:
• Motive For The Rest (of)
We play along. We view the world, as we speculate it may have been, due to what they are now.
Their smiles thrive on our acceptance of pretense.
Their voices lead by introducing new fears.
Their hands divide us by misrepresenting the world.
Their bones are given power by our acceptance of deaths, regardless of the details of its life.
They know they have no place in this world, we know they have no place in this world: let us make an end to the existence of the dinosaurs.
◦ Let us exist.