The swirling of catastrophic headlines supports our blessed self opinions. Walking tall on presumptuous scaffolds of progress, we exist contentedly, without acknowledging our ineptness. Creation not wholly shared, clouds of pride curl over friction caused by superficial clawing. Marks left on the earth that it too does not notice. Enough time and much less attention, we’ve even taken to the chaos of our inevitable demise. Beauty established as a circumstance of sense.