Death is a wonderful thing.
You take some flesh and bone in a bag, add plenty of water, and a little bit of salt.
Shake it a little, rattle the engine and it springs to life.
This blob of molecules breathes and lives and loves and hurts.
Most importantly, it does things outside of itself.
It builds. It moves. It meets other blobs.
Sometimes it kills and sometimes it hugs.

It leaves stains wherever it goes.
Here was Blob.
Blob was here.

Some stains are beautiful, others not so.
And this meaningless blob, though filthy and wet, is ever moving, ever trying, even though it knows it’s dying.
This sack of bones refuses to stop, and as death crawls nearer it moves even faster, leaving as many stains as it possibly can, as if that will keep death at bay.

And then came that fateful day when the engine gave way, and the blob, unmoving, lay..

And as they carried the blob away, to where they will all go someday, they saw a stain, shining bright and clear,
Here was Blob,
Blob was here.