Life is horrific.

What we call life, this endless variety
Of organized matter that developed tissue
Differentiation, body plans, digestive systems,
Locomotion, nerve centers, musculature,
Weapons, armor, better weapons, better armor,
And better weapons is just what it seems:
An arms race to compete for a scarcity of
Resources. It is the desire to procure resources
At the expense of others that drives life onward,
That, indeed, IS life. No other motive, no art,
No wonder of gazing upon stars, postulating
Any higher purpose, no desire to build for aesthetics,
No propoganda of righteousness, no inner reflection,
No knowledge for its own sake, no experimentation,
No pleasure seemingly benign or existential,
No sense of beauty or springboard of new ideas
To propel us into the stars or into the future,
No altruism, no city-building, no bright exchange
Of colorful words, beguiling music, no religion
Or feeling of wonder nor diversity of culture,
No race to cure disease or dreams of the noble savage;
Not one of these things can offer a greater reason
For our existence, and for the existence of all that
Walks, crawls, writhes, swings, digs, or flies
Around us, than that very coarse and humiliating
Base fact that belies the motivations of them all.

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