Standing in line. Massaging my bruised right thumb, a recurrent, nagging injury. Surrounded by The Crowd, each table its own hive swarming aimlessy in discussion.

I can feel the bone connecting thumb to hand fully. It occurs just then: I am merely a skeleton surrounded by mushy organs surrounded by flesh. I peer out at other humans, only to see them as skeletons too. Sitting, conversing, sipping, laughing, reading pontificating flesh-skeletons. The feeling lasts an instant and fades. It feels absurd to believe there is meaning in life. It feels even more absurd to take this bit of nihilist existentialism seriously.