No Sentient Sentimentality

There ain't no original folks. We're all faded dittos of the great replicator which prepared us and every other animal and plant, fungi to ant, and continually remakes the thousands of species we house. We are parasites in symbiosis to memes. The intentional is illusionary. The concrete a dream. When you dress, when you speak, when you buy, when you take a leak, you do it in the fashion the meme, the idea, preordained by the iteration and change and repetition you inherited. You are mere drops  from a surf and you imagine you are each the whale and and the sea and Jonah and can teach them all to sing, and hear them ring meanings and significances to guide you in a divine drama that is a mere randomness. The comedy is what you can manufacture from the data. Laughter is all one can grasp to make the fatigue leave inside the convulsion of breath heaved before brain stem snail inside that fragile bit of calcium takes back the default pace automatic and as out of your control as any other thing. Ride the air.