on and on he just keeps playing...

My very own idea of the probably non-existent being who assumingly created us.

I'd write something about a starry night;
but tonight, this very dreary night,
the sky's just black.
behind it's obscurity,
a splendid moving mosaique
of a lonely globe,
wandering around a bigger globe,
which is itself wandering around some kind of center;
its crushing our pride.
nevertheless here we are
sand grains of time
the painful loneliness
of a soulless universe
inside an exquisite hourglass,
carefully placed on top of a piano,
whose owner is melodramatically playing
Chopin's Marche Funèbre.