ever dumbening There is absolutely no reason why we should believe that we'll wake tomorrow, other than a suspect handful of statistics with ever slipping odds. A stray wind-blown tree, an errant car led by an errand mind, a broken this or that inside. So if my 260,000,000th breath is my last, what will the armchair archaeologists find?

How many mistaken assumptions? How many missed threads? What moments of my life have calcified enough to stand out amidst the clutter? Where in the strata will these bones be found; what will they say? What of the photo, the book, the letter I threw out last week? Or the one I was going to throw out tomorrow? What of the journals, and what of their blank pages?

Would someone leaf through my Molecular Biology of the Gene book and come across some strange angry comment (from ten years past) in the margin--about a girl or restriction fragment length polymorphisms? Was this a joke?

Would anyone know what the rocks on the mantle meant to me or where they were from? Did I tell you that story? Or did it pass swiftly on the wings of the_graphite_of_emptiness?

Would they know of the dreams cast about on the floor and in the cupboards? The bolts of fabric, the sharpened soft-lead pencils and textured paper, the empty spice tins, the Dremel bits, the hockey gloves, the yellowing pages of trumpet etudes.

Would they find the path to this blue plane, to the seeds that grew or died here, to the different parts with different names?

And what of the fleshy thoughts of last week or last year that escaped becoming fossils?

We are simply a succession of moments that leave multi-colored little stains here and there for hands and minds to sift and interpret.
xle at first glance i saw "fleshy thoughts that escape tonsils"
if that were the case they would find a few bottles of unfinished antibiotics (uh oh), immuniTEA, and the fleshy bits themselves in some tissues
e. d. ewwww.
archaeology is a dirty job, indeed.
xle i midden suggest boredom dissapears with daxle 021228
the hell of no interval mid-den (mid'n) N. :
a dunghill or a refuse heap, esp of a primitive habitation.

[Webster's II - New Riverside Dictionary]
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