[Note: Written in Prison after pondering how small we are in relation to space and the world, painting as accurate a picture as I could to plant the image in the readers mind]

You think you are so great. I will tell you how small you are. You are the slightest scratch of lead, in a small word written in pencil. The word you are in is not even a significant one. It is not even part of an important paragraph. It is a small word that people skim over without a thought, and you’re not even the world. You’re a particle to a letter of that useless word. A useless word in a page full of words, the page one of five hundred in a large book. Even to be the book would not make you great, for it is one book of thousands, in a library. Your book may be significant, but oh how it is buried among so many! Perhaps if you were the paint of the library you would be great, but even paint gets old and one day gets painted over. So you wish to become the almighty powerful library. And yet, the library is just one mediocre building in a land so vast, so unreachable by the little speck of lead you are. So many larger buildings in this land of yet more vast unknown contents, enough information to blow you into tiny wet exploded fragments. You are nothing. How many cities, states, countries, continents and then planets! How can you be so big to control and understand! When you cannot even see past the small word you’re in which already seems like the world! Some say it is not to be understood by the likes of you. I would like to think they are wrong. If only, oh, perhaps…

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