This life has appointed meadows of green and fields of petals, and fluttery ambassadors of mirth. Licensed to the brevity of moments, this life can apathetically taunt us with sporadic tantrums of flood, drought, famine, and callow graves. We are blessed with sapid visions of felicity in our sleep, then indiscriminately reviled with recondite reveries of melancholy or horror. Both if Lady Luck was on her cigarette break.
Yet, I shivered at this revelation:
The diurnal diet of fantasies and phantasms this life has bequeathed us as nourishment, only evokes from us, virulent questions to Purpose, which was evangelized to have been planned since the first malefic tick of time (though this belief dissented from my own, open disdain ensured a more meager albatross). Answers were pertinaciously intended not to be given. The sheets of music given to each musician in the orchestra treacherously seceded from the program on the night. Still a nefarious face of mine is infinitely fascinated by what the mania of man can culminate.
The shuddering shivers came with the discerning conceivability of the powers that be, of whom had lavished this life upon us, may have astutely been fascinated by the culminations surmised by the mania of man, as I have.