A woman wakes with a helpless feeling.
She makes a goal to count every bug in the dirt, every blade of grass in the field, every cloud in the sky, every star in the cosmos, every solar system and their planets, and every god in which we reside.
She does this in order to better understand the world. To find purpose. To know that there is something bigger than her.
But after all her counting, she still feels empty. She has little faith, and she feels more confused than anything.
So she asks one of the gods she counted for advice.
The god suggests that she count every possible outcome of events, and every possible universe that exists as a result of each possibility.
The god tells her to pick the best one, and that it will grant her entry to any universe of her choosing.
So she counts, and she thinks.
She ponders, and ponders, and ponders.
Hours turn to days.
Covered in her own excrement, she suffers and suffers,and starving herself, she whithers,
and before even a week can pass,
she's fallen face down.
And she stays like this.
And before too long, nature makes a mother of her, and the maggots suckle her teet.
Carnivorous bees feast the maternal ceremony, hollow her ribcage in orchestral fashion.
The vulture, their conductor, ever wise and elegant, stalks as she is spread into the dirt.
The god thanks her for blessing the earth with her flesh.
Two deaths and four births per second. Those who wish to cheat death are blasphemous. We are one body, and nature will intervene.