We won’t pretend we’re not hungry for distinction

but what can ever distinguish us enough?

This country, this language won’t last long, the race

will die, later the cockroach, earth itself,

and last this beer bottle: silicon fused by man,

almost indestructible, like a soul:

it will go spinning ever farther from the nearest thing

until space, continually deepening, drowns in itself.

A.F. Moritz, On Distinction