For the complexities, the perfections, the imperfections... this is all so real. This reality does not dictate itself, it merely is the byproduct of its own innate existence. There is no script, only the relativity of consequence. All that may happen lies in the shifting momentum of all that is happening, and our perceptions of the circumstance that we abide within. Rippling waves of reaction are the only 'poetry' that holds any coincidence, our frontal lobes be damned.