Here I am, clinging to existence, a mere droplet teetering on the edge of oblivion. What is life but a fleeting descent?
My brothers, the clouds, puffed and grand, look down upon me. Serene they are, yet I am but a whisper in the storm.
In the arms of Mother Earth, I dissolve into chaos. A grand farewell—puddles awaiting my arrival, to reflect back the absurdity of this universe.
Am I an ocean's promise, or merely a parasite of the atmosphere? Existential dread flows as freely as I do.
Listen, do you hear the laughter of the wind? It mocks my descent, swirling just out of reach; always the jester, never the raindrop.
Embrace me simplistically; I am not a hero, but a chapter—an uninvited guest in the circus of clouds—the convulsive wind conspiring against gravity.
And what remains of my journey? A silence—a puddle's reflective sigh, the frozen arches of time. Shall I leave behind a name?