There is no purpose to life—we are born to die, and that’s it.
Everything in between is a flaccid time-filler. And yet we flex
our muscles and strike dignified poses, as if we were better
than seagulls fighting over a box of chips with chippy sauce
dumped on the pavement by bar-goers on their way home
after a Friday night out, when in fact, even our cries are as loud
and desperate—except theirs say that there is no purpose to life
but life itself.
hidden pilcrow 