Requiem in D major, growing over my decrepit existence. Slipping away graciously in unison, reverb sounds of a dirge. Words I can't comprehend. Bundle me up within a comradeship of toothpicks in a box. Who'll be picked first? It's time to pick clean some teeth. Someone is pulling off the strings of a bridge that holds it intact. Collapse. I am still there, alive, holding on. A pink petunia bloom pops up. Satin petals swirl soft and smile. What combusts within it; sugar, pigments, water, and light, providing it with energy to glow like an ephemeron. Glow, my sweet one, glow. My index finger brushes its softness, nesh to touch. Under a microscope, it has compact machinery lined up in sheer perfection that makes it all possible. Anabolic and catabolic mechanisms, building and breaking, miniature workers at work. A diminutive factory behind every bit of this colorful, eye-catching being. If not this, what is divinity?
And I don't know any more about beauty. Soon, its edges will turn into russets and wilt, give into senescence and gracefully accept an end. Aceptance with such grace, if not this, what is humility? Can I ever learn to accept things coming to an end with such grace?
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