We are all alone. But somehow this knowledge leads us to a belief that we are unique or special.
When instead we should consider the more dreary likelihood that are not clever, nor special.
We are tumbleweeds. We drag our scythe across the mythic culture of our minds. We plant the soil with seeds of our sinister being.
The brains tiny folds and twists found in the forebrain, the reason we can be human, are in fact also thought to be ditches, irrigating the hatred of 3 billion years of evolution on to consciousness itself.
The screams of our forebears will outlive us all.