Cosmic joke punchline
But not the most prosocial sometime - one life - one try
Forty dead for each person alive, come to some sign
A million never existing for each step in the bloodline - unkind
Identity is shaped by the mix of a magic moment
One egg meets a million conflicting spermatozoa
One chance for a name to be chosen off of a list
Most people don’t get to exist, it’s the pits
But if there’d been some kind of jostle or sneeze
Instead of my novelist steez there’d be more novel debris
But that man would have an egg in common with me
Is that enough for us to have the same consciousness gleaned to the same constant degree?

Would it be me with different thoughts or not me?
Sometimes I feel people watching at my back and can’t drop free
A trillion ghosts to every real person, it’s multiplicative
Fuck I’m sick of it, come give me some stuff that isn’t this
From the void a million different emissary infants
For anything to have a state that shit is very twisted
And everything that is has gone through Scylla and Charybdis
And everything that isn’t might be somewhere very different

A function of potentials to capacity
Worldlines trace shapes in higher-dimensional tapestries
Don’t ask me please, nature does the hard limits
Dark physics give you so much greater than a star pittance - art’s image
When I was in college I wanted the life nomadic
Thought maybe I could have it - gutterpunkish self-serving
A dozen weeks of research getting up to something well-versed and
Wanted to be free except it wasn’t on the bell curve
You can never know which road’s less traveled
And that has made all the difference, hope since raveled
Kid reading SF became precocious, dazzle them
Metaphysics overcome with new rows of scaffolding
And between all my selves each millenium flies
Perceptual time, how many of me dead, how many alive
If some atoms on accident reformed the shape of my brain
At this moment, would my flow then be wayward the same?

Would it be me with different thoughts or not me?
Sometimes I feel people watching at my back and can’t drop free
A trillion ghosts to every real person, it’s multiplicative
Fuck I’m sick of it, come give me some stuff that isn’t this
From the void a million different emissary infants
For anything to have a state that shit is very twisted
And everything that is has gone through Scylla and Charybdis
And everything that isn’t keeps on whistling in the distance

Somewhere else this song’s called Branches on the Tree of Time
Less about the lost hours and chances of a rerevive
But I thought that Borges would spark up an indie vibe with this
And if I seem to blow then it’s simply my windy-mindedness
Bothallchoractorschumminaround-
gansumuminarumdrumstrumtrumInahumptadump
waultopoofoolooderamaunsturnup - dude devolves to stuff
That students call a bluff but you applaud - the fuck.