At the Launderette

Poetry is a form of madness. 

It makes us say things we didn’t know we wanted to say about things we didn’t know we cared about.  Why in the vastness of eternity are we sometimes alive and most of the time not alive? 

Chaos mathematics says that even by running the simplest of formulae there is no way of predicting an outcome. Results branch and spiral round and round.  There are no straight paths from here to here. 

And entropy decrees that there is no way if retracing the steps that were made to get here. 

We’re here and we’re stuck here like a dirty vest in a tumble dryer with the dial turned to the eternity setting.

And if we don’t understand, if we cannot find some sort of explanation, are we right to be angry

Can we afford NOT to be angry at a Universe that seems so indifferent to us? 

No - more than that; That keeps changing the rules?

A Universe that treats us with utter contempt

and leaves us feeling… something

From certainty to uncertainty

Newton Einstein  Heisenberg Heineken