I believe. . . I hope. . .
Particles of dust, we are. Our bodies. All the things we see. Bits and smidgeons come together and make mountains. Little pieces of this, little pieces of that. You can arrange them by weight if it makes you feel better. You can call them periodic. You can give them names and numbers and create for yourself an order. But there is no order, only the chaos of collision and cohesion that, for a moment, sets up the bowling pins in a neat pattern that only seems symmetrical to the eye.
There is gravity. There is cool air and warm air and thus there is wind. There is water in this place that falls copiously from the sky. No thing stands forever in this place of molded dust and swirling particles. The bits and pieces wash away. Ashes to ashes, the bowling pins fall and scatter. The became becomes the becomming. Grains…
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