Life is a cliché. Endless repetition. Over and over. People wake up. People shower. They have breakfast and lunch and dinner, then go to bed. They dream silly, nuts, romantic, nonsense, horror. They shit and they fuck. They make love. They piss. They diss. They praise and reward and exaggerate and award. They talk endlessly. They shut up. They die. People are born. Then they die. People walk. People run. They deny. Sometimes admit. Or acknowledge. They shoot or stab or hit or beat over. They kill. They rape. They hide. They say they have done shit. People blame it on anyone else. They blame media. Their parents. Their friends. Drugs. Alcohol. The environment. Mostly their parents. They are never guilty. They flee. They blabber. But at times they say something meaningful. They write. They recite. They sing. Paint. Carve. Create in general. They beget beauty. They are beauty. They depict it all. The universe. God. Sex. The mind. The one they love. The ones they don't. They burst. They burn. They vanish. They are one and one only. And so on. Because life is the endless repetition of worthless or divine patterns. Here and there and everywhere and nowhere. Because we barely understand anything. Spacetime is immense so we think of the infinite. No such thing. Because I am just particles. And when I decompose, when I fuse, there is no possible way I shall remain. There is no bliss in nirvana, so why would I?