With all five fifths of the world having been given and gone, with it all so terribly in rot, for most, it simply could not continue in the exact same manner. We, as in us, could let all, as in we, know everything, but we as in us, as in all, choose not to. 

 Choose still, we do, and again, and even now, not to. 

“Too easy,” we might have said, “Too simple...Too complicatedly shallow.”

 “Let it be, and let it play as it might and will.”

We did say this last bit, and then of course without hesitation.

It boggles and bends the mechanism to comprehend, but it truly might go farther, or take longer, than anyone has ever suspected. It might just well circle back and seamlessly repeat with only those much smaller than quarks in a slightly similar, if not exactly similar position. Then again, what does it mean if all is not same, or different? Does the outcome not depend on whom the outcome is witnessed by? If, and if ever, an “outcome” comes out? From where then? And for what does this serve? Must everything done, doable, or even just wondered be ably observed or observable, measured or measurable, taken down and fondled, made judgment of, and packaged or destroyed? Must all thought and particle be accounted for by those, we and us, when the task, although unbeknownst to us, is already done? Done for surely we would not be here questioning the question if it were not already so. I know little, if nothing, anything, at all. And yet my body cries and weeps for more, for something that lets me know what I seek is not futile, is not simple and worth less. I know better but still my cynical nature overrides hopeful function. My faith in the density, the overall truth of all things to be what they are, what they will be and to feel comfort in the fact that all is all right. All is correct. No matter how we choose to label it.