mad lib stream of consciousness with a touch of mojito

To be, or not-- that is the glue that binds us to here and there and everywhere. In a universe of flaming distant stars like a veritable forest of light and gas, do I exist, do these words mean anything at all?

The slings and eggs of flimsy fortune are like all endeavors, really, what ever lasts beyond here and now? How does something become timeless? Can it? What is memory and how exactly is it different from imagination and outright longings for whimsy?

A sea of veins opened up and flooded the world with longing. In this day and age of structure and routine the only thing that keeps us alive is tripping over our own absurd longings and being forced to confront them.

To die is to detest. Truly to hate is to die. Tis better to live and forgive, than hate and exacerbate. Life is too short to hold silly grudges whose origins are lost to obscurity, whose very meaning has faded beyond legibility. No more; and by a detest to say we end this veritable sham of judgement.

That flesh is the lithographer, the lines of my experience are carved into the stone of my body, my scars, my calloused hands, the lines of worry and regret. These are all etched by the acid of my struggles, the bitterness of my wounds. The best of teachers.

There's the tin can; too many things are disposable and we barely think about how they came to be here and what purpose they really served. Indeed it is the lack of intention and continuing usefulness that is the root of all careless forms of evil that thrive in the world. Convenience and utilitarianism are not the same.

When we have flamboozeled off this definitive coil, we will all be much more in tune with the laws of the universe and thereafter cease taking ourselves too seriously.

Einstein would have believed Peterson's theory--the quote on the wall said that great minds are often attacked by small ones. I think they both would agree that great minds are too often squelched by hopeless insistence on conformity and order.

In other plums, we all fall from the tree and land precariously, shattered and bruised, waiting to be crushed underfoot. But inside every wounded body is a seed of hope that it waiting to sprout again when conditions are favorable, after a long period of cold and rain.

The laws of stocking states that random objects will appear even when objects disappear at a predictable rate; this demonstrates an unconscious urge towards entropy in all things, even inventory. Who knows whence the random item will reappear in a non-logical position, yet it was intentionally introduced into the set.

Einstein revealed that every observer ought to extrapolate every light music to move us not at speed c, because light music is the worst possible excuse for instrumentation. If you don't know how to play, make sure you do it loudly.

No matter how fast you vilify, there will always be a new enemy, whose proper epithet escapes you.

Extrapolate this at a resting state. It is ephemeral and elusive, like the grasp of summer.