Our lights and buzzing machines have trivialized the flow of becoming right in its tracks, some might say, but we push on through, hoping to slide between our own notions of harmony to force it that way and still not comprehend the nature of being.

But isn't this actually closer to something, albeit inapproachable, like a wall of water leering there in the face of all incontrovertible exchanges we call philosophy or self-questioning, or some other such grasping at the belly of an impalpable germ?

I'm not sending a message to set mayhem loose; on the contrary, I want it to stay.