The human output
We have created so much material, so many movies, so many books. We have covered the Earth with works of hope, sadness, love. Today they mostly make garbage; the sirs of the past wrote about man’s pain; now men enjoys themselves in the middle of the manure and those texts are seen more like work rather than pleasure.
The fact is that, about this whole sphere of material, made both from the past and from today, both from the wise and from the stupid, what can we do with it? I don’t do anything anymore. Others still do something with it.
However, how can you hold back a smile in front of the absurdity of this all? I can imagine this balloon: everything is gathered into one single thing (like Katamari), which flies in space to give an idea of ​​its size when compared to our planet. Then I look at the men, proud of what they have done, who are happily observing the sphere. And then I see the Earth and the ball of material hurling themselves against the Sun, disintegrating, without losing their smile. Even the Sun is laughing.
And then nothing remains, or rather everything remains, the other planets, the other stars, the other galaxies. And the laughing Sun.
And I’m laughing too.