A lion furiously biting down the red freshly dead muscles of a musk, the pigeon on my window pane waiting for a week after her egg disappeared (the egg fell and broke in her absence), the radiance of a wild lily that lets the droplets casually slip through her skin, the pointless vastness of the sky which for god knows what is vaster than one can ever imagine, the veins of a leaf and the random structure that they naturally follow, the ripples in the water that form a whirlpool, the unending patience with which a horizon still confidently stands.. Waiting to be reached... someday... will I ever be that close to life?

Consciousness. Consciousness of existence. That's my bane, that's also the reason I am capable of jotting these things down. But where does it take me? I would not have asked this question if I at all were the pigeon or the lily or the horizon.... why was there the need for a race that could sit back and wonder about themselves, their crimes and prejudices, their world, their sight, their experience?

Applause was it?