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Nothing is like anything else, |
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everything's the same, |
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our progress punctuated |
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by a series of coincidence |
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to form a logical chain. |
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Nothing is like everything else, |
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like anything you name. |
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Pomposity unpunctured, |
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we're approaching a velocity |
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of escape from our mortal frames. |
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So nothing is like anything else, |
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so everything's designed. |
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We're utterly dependent on |
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our self-deluding sense of what we've done |
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and what we'll do if we have time |
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with nothing else in mind. |
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A time to think is now at a premium. |
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You show bare inkling of a vital sign. |
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Though in the pink |
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in every outward appearance |
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inside it's white dot time. |
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Oh, nothing comes to mind. |
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So nothing comes to mind. |
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Does nothing come to mind |
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when you're finally mindful of nothing? |
