Does it matter?
Pretension is your preconception.
I am your disposition, and I may speak sometimes.
You may not listen.
My whim is your tempest, and your gods are my inhibitions.
It's only worth my headache if I got your attention.
There's time and space, I presume, and my mass is the displacement of that which all of the gods will exclude, except for you.
Rather, I ask, does it matter?
I'm mostly carbon and water, same as my father.
I'm a pig for the slaughter.
My skin could be leather to hold up your pants or tie up your feathers, for better or worse you can't fly to the heavens.
When the pawn's on the gallows for slitting the knight's throat, the king hides behind arrows and a fancy hearse.
Queen me, Queen Bee, I'm watching Venus Rise over Redbug and I can't only see, I can listen.
My name was 6 billion-and-something born at the dusk of the dissolution of the Cold War and near desolation of mankind, and now I'm 1/7-billionth of one species on 4.5 billion years of moon driven tides.
Set that aside and I'm right.
I'm right-brained and right-handed.
I'm on the left side.
I'm left-handed and right-eyed.
My glass eye is wise.
I can't conceive of a life Christlike.
In the wake of all morality there is only a mind.
The center of integrity is innate.
Free will is fish bate.
Mind over matter, or matter over mind?