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I think when the fates were spinning the threads of my destiny, 

Some crazy nymphs must have scribbled all across it,

Taking it to be a drawing board. 

Someone must have graded the resulting art work poorly, 

Because everything in it was as far from perfect as it could be. 

My destiny was not manufactured in the forges of hope and love, 

But seems to have been made from a cheap imitation shop on the cosmic roadside, 

Where beggars survive by selling their souls. 

The sky I look at does not have stars,

But holes, black holes. 

I know you think I am a nihilist. 

To be honest, I am just an addled earthling, 

Who realized belatedly that life is a cheating partner,

And karma the one he cheated on me with.