I live in a flesh house,
a mind with walls made of tissue and bone,
fuelled by electricity and blood,
I eat from mother earth,
I suckle from the teat of Gaia,
I wander the halls of infinity,
stepping gingerly across the glass floor of inconsolable despair,
I'm just a peasant,
too pedestrian for your equestrian tastes,
I love your simple epistemology,
it's really just a horny little eschatology,
it's a conversation that ends as stale as it begins,
it's ok though,
because as we age,
we are slipping into freedom,
which is just another word for emptiness,
and emptiness is just another word for loneliness,
and loneliness is just another word for the freedom to be,
and there's not much time for you and me,
because, you see, a lifetime is relative to eternity.
