I say too late for Chapter Eleven:
reorganize, don't call it quits?
Our situate is Chapter 7:
turn off the lights, roll the obits.
This was our fate from the get-go,
an ironclad, gold plate guarantee.
Lie back, close your eyes, just let go.
Accept the fait accompli.
Some had some fun, but “in the long run,”
as Keynes said, “we are all dead.”
No point in groaning. Forego bemoaning.
Abandon all hope. Take to your bed.
If you are hoping we'll find ways of coping,
then I humbly suggest,
a book — maybe three? — about history.
SPOILER ALERT! This WILL cause distress.
Life, by design, is not intelligent.
Any creator is simply irrelevantor, if he exists, entirely malevolent
and almost certainly out of his element.
