We don’t have much in the way of certainty, least ‘round these parts.
A knife feels good and solid. But ‘less you’re real careful, it’ll be as like to cut you as the one you’re tangling with. And that’s if they don’t wrest it from you.
A friend you’ve known for years, stuck with through hunger and thirst? Like as not, come a bad dust season too many, they’ll act like you’re any other bugger.
Used to be the sky was always there, above us, careless to our petty murders. But that’s burned up too, now.
If you think the only one you can count on’s yerself, then you’re in for a rude awakening sooner than soon. I’ve let myself down more’n can be counted.
What then? Well, death o’course. Taxes, depends on how you fight.
Broader-wise, decay. Entropy, y’dsay. Stuff runs down. Nothing stays.
And that each day, each hour, each breath we fight against these certainties exalts us, refines us, makes us diamonds rippling out against the ashes of the sky.