These are your bones in blood, here? Right here?
You are ground by the parts of you which you will never see?
I told you once, “your quahogs are a mystery to us both, whereas my rock lobster is red and plainly obvious.”
I saw a bird the other day, sitting on a nest full of yolks and broken shells, see? The Mother sits on her mysteries, humans can claim that the throne of mysteries, upon which The Mother sits, is that life which is borne from memento mori, not from out from under us.
What could life mean to matter! Nothing but work, and that endless. If it is like something to be an electron, who’d want to become trapped in an organism with no supernatural predators?