Patterns in the Fog

Life is nothing more than a series of repetitive gestures, altered ever so slightly each time they are performed. To live is to be destined to reprisal. Perhaps, therein lies the purpose of life, a steady stream of practiced movements, calculated and executed millions of times until perfection is borne of trial and error. Perhaps we are the infinite monkeys, and our bodies are the infinite typewriters. Perhaps once perfection has been reached in all pertinent categories we shall be exposed to the true form and purpose of the universe and existence. Perhaps by this point we will already know.