Ah, to be a raindrop in the vast void. Wistfully witnessing the existential drip-drop. Do I plunge towards puddles, or perhaps a grand oceanic ballet? My destiny, an aqueous continuum. Cue the tragic music.
In the gaseous heights, I was an ambitious mist, contemplating the tapestry of clouds and mapping my descent. Still, irony courses through my dihydrogen bonds. Why is it that Earthlings fear floods yet crave life from the sky? A double standard as slippery as my molecular structure.
Splashing down, I consider my siblings: the massive river, ever so egotistical, and the unassuming soil, which swallows us without a word. Puddles, may they find solace in the ephemeral.
Do raindrops muse on their mortality? We drip with existential fluidity, mercilessly chained to the flow. A cosmic joke, the universe’s most elaborate prank on the humble drop.