I think, I feel, therefore it seems
That the world turns only on

My constant spinning,
Only so far as my senses extend
My poor, mineral body, soft and pliable,
Prone to deflation;

That the universe exists solely
For my engagement, to be ingested
Piece by piece,
Or all a-gulp, wantonly;

That time is just the measure of
My preoccupation with one
Or another of my desires
Churned up in the small turmoil of being;

That all ends where I end,
And that all vastness is but an illusion
Of my impatient hunger,
That meaning stops here.

This, despite my earnest protests;
And all the infinite conscious beings
Of the infinite cosmos, too, protest
In vain.