The world is not made of whimsy anymore than it is wooden blocks stacked one upon the other, & the order we see is carefully contrived, rules to keep us safe, sane, and between the lines. Yet even those lines are little more than a false tale we tell ourselves, a desperate scrabbling for coherence amongst the chaos & chance that are our true birthright.

Every thing has its’ place, and every person their role, and every god a desperate liar seeking vicarious immortality through the bloodstained pages of their books of order & discipline. Whimsy & wisdom rot at the edges and we all seek them anyway, unable to accept the fickle winds that deny fate, decry destiny, and offer nothing except chance, and therein create some slim hope for influence enough to create structure, the skeleton humanity so desperately wants, to help hold its’ head upright, no matter the deceit inflicted.

Hubris and hatred are closer brothers than hope and heaven could ever aspire to be, and none are any more likely than the next to summarize what the world is made of beyond dirt, dust, and the tears of a poisoned sky.