existence is a complex lottery, issuing tickets at some--what we conceive to be--rate over time. we are born into it scratching and stumbling and pissing all over ourselves, just to depend upon the scratchings and stumblings of those before us, they before those, them before they, so on and so forth, &c.; blank minds into a vividly vague infinity of impossibilities being realized unto eternity, or not.

the chipped and split fingernails of our consciousnesses rake away the flakey latex obfuscating our futures. must we always redeem our lottery tickets? if the analogy can be taken this far, is it reasonable to assume that some shin high trash can sporting a barnaclish collection of putrid grime congealed into waves and strings, slowly terraforming the plastic landscape into a firm bed upon which the roots of sickness can take hold, and with a bag sunken and sagging and spattered with sauces and straw wrappers, is it reasonable to assume that some trashcan of sickness exists into which can be deposited our less fortunate tickets, where they will be tossed away by some attendant, then driven to a landfill to fade and crumble under the attentive eyes of municipal waste managers?