What a strange experience it is to live
As an organism certain it will die,
Awake and aware of itself part of the day,
Dreaming and forgetting most nights.
What a strange experience it is to live
Among sun-eating trees and calling birds,
As a creature that consumes lives to live,
A being made mostly of arguments and words.
What a strange experience it is to be
Enumerating the strangeness of things,
As if one had prior experience of worlds
More familiar, no strangeness to things.
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