None of it really matters anymore;
neither our own impending erasure
nor the sudden vanishing of others;
not even the remote possibility that
no news might indeed be good news.
No one knows this better than we:
we’re hardly even here this minute.
Nothing is anything anymore.
Nothing. And none of us matter.
Nothing is real. None of it. None.
dVerse Poets Pub
Meeting The Bar
~ endings / beginnings ~