We are a dream of the universe. The breath multiplied and refracted,
dissolved in the ocean of infinitude.
A picture, a pictograph, a word, like god containing the metaphor of creation.
Each of many fantastic wanderings drunk with the cup of time.
Declaring singularity where none exists.
Entombed by the absurdity of the word.
We are but a breath in the illusory progression of the verb to be.
No thing is born, no thing dies,
as stories we are multi-dimensional patterns visible or invisible to the mechanism of an eye.
We are merely the dreams of exploding stars
with the agency of a Dung beetle rolling the sun into the sky.