I am the fruit that falls from the tree to has its seeds eaten by birds and dropped in the water of the river of time.

I am the mobile phone that rings in the auditorium of the theater hall, disrupting the quiet concentration of an astute French audience.

I am the shit in this life of twisted humanity and existential floundering.

I am the body of the hurt and torn yearnings of tormented childhood.

I am the day to day, and in the night I just want to sleep, for tomorrow I must toil with this aging and feverish flesh.

I am not a god. I used to be fish, and should I be truly thankful that I have evolved?