On Suffering

I waited too long to mow my lawn biopsy my lung yet lived long enough, anon, however long is long. Whatever. It's not wrong to count along while busy living. Sing and stay strong absorb the sun's photons and store them in your bones. Those bones outlast slights and spurns are white as lightning and strong as sticks and stones. Inside is one's spirit, soul, the nameless one the one that's never known. It has no cell phone can't communicate or even moan. Therefore. Why complain? Have some fun. Soon I'll be undone underground my garden burned down. So what. John Donne died and so did Milton. Emerson too, and Whitman. Get over it. Vote. Love. When the train comes in the station whistle with it, wish on stars with passion or careful hesitation. Anything's fine, within reason. Season by season things get done. Algebra and calculus, Malcolm X, George Washington. No taxation without representation. A gun in every den. People will be governed one way or another, by a king or trusted friend. Corporation. Men are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the Evils to which they are resigned. I'm too young to die! I cry. My generation cannot outrun the sun but I want to see what happens next, a tsunami or tornado, rain and wind beyond our comprehension hit in the head by speeding debris, irony of ironies! plastic contraptions, rotting computers and yogurt cups, pain in the baby! Moment's notice. None, I notice, live long enough to see the end. Amen. A million years hence human sense has so modified and mutated under other moons we share one mind and everything's remembered by everyone. Look it up. There is no death, just perfect rest. A perfect tan is possible, and work is fun. I'm going there when I pass on because souls will travel at warp speeds, using nuclear fusion. About suffering, religion was right (and wrong) all along.