I am a tiny eddy of matter that has somehow gained a hole in its face, through which it shoves matter that it spits out the other end, so that it may continue to exist so long as its forward momentum holds. One day the system of this lump of matter will break down; but for now it has arms & legs & the power to shove dead plants and animals into itself, and grow, grow, grow. And it has come out of the mystery of the Void into Being & all its holy miracles, to get into petty disputes with neighbors, to stare up at the ceiling annoyed at Harry's squeaking bedsprings. Oh what a waste it was, the day I was conceived; what a waste of the miraculous power of Existence to come out of the dark night of Void and create something that actually lives, to make something that had never yet been, ever; what a waste this was in my case, who spent the passing cheese of days, months, years sipping beer and growing annoyed at his neighbor's loud TV, looking at dirty pictures in the bathroom and making a mess in his hands. Where did I come from, and how was it that I was suddenly brought into this world, when all that had ever been born before were not me? Men and women had been making love and bringing soft creatures into Being for hundreds of thousands of years, while I slept enveloped in sweet nothingness; and suddenly Barbara Franz and Roger Ratcliff, in 1972, procreated and brought forth this, the lonesome hermit who wasted away such a miracle by dulling his mind with alcohol & antipsychotics.