The black seal is depression. We reel punch-drunk in the human ring. Love and Death working as a tag team will undo us all.
We are insensate molicules assembled from the accidental code engraved upon our genes.

Mud that sat up.

Chemicals mingle in our sediment and in their interactions and combustions we suppose we feel, suppose we love. We reproduce mathmatically predictable as spores in a petri dish. We function briefly, then subside once more into the unknowing silt. We are a blind contingency. An unimportant restlessness of dirt - and yet, Rossetti paints his dead Elizabeth, head tilted back on her impossibly slim throat; eyes closed against the golden light surrounding her.

Clay looks on clay and understands that it is beautiful. Through us, the cosmos gazes on itself; adores itself, breaks its own heart. Through us, matter stares slack-jawed at its own stardusted countenance and knows, incredulously, that it knows - and knows that it is universe.

Alan Moore ~ Snakes and Ladders.