The Windy Passage from Nostalgia

"Prose poems culminating in: The big ""population I’s"", ultra blue-whites in the spiral arms of the Galaxy, are being flung out as they are born. We are in them. A trillion pounds per square foot per unit of time, fueling a supergalaxy with an equator and pole. I wouldn’t give shit for my immortality. But it’s not that. Why, in light of all the rest, should I even be here, with the thoughts I have, the desires I feel, the will I have to act out those desires, to fill time with words that have meaning, that they survive in some form, that they not be blown away like ashes after I am gone? With the Sun burning out (in time, in time, it will all happen), with the supergalaxy collapsing in the blue withdrawal of expansion’s arrow, drawing its electric charges back, what meaning then will meaning have? "