I thought of practicing my handwriting

I am, I suppose

As I subconsciously scrawl

My, my, I, I

All I know is I

No escaping it, everyone must suffer

This disease of self-distinction

Piteous, I am filled

With distance beyond explanation

Does the great, mysterious blackness

Alight as a city, awesome in its vastness,

Intend it so?

Endless, spinning bursts of life and death

Seemingly indifferent

If we are sad,

It is as the molecules of which we are assembled

Deem it necessary

So far from my hand

But within these smudged blue scratches

I feel the magnitude of all that is

And far beyond, all hurtling shamelessly

They are not so far, those stars

Whose sadness I've been endowed

We are a way for the cosmos

to know itself.

My, my, I, I

How funny indeed.