It's done so many times.
In a minute, an hour, a year, and a lifetime.
Without thought.
Mundane.
But.
That breath,
made with air on the skin,
in the throat,
chest,
lungs,
in this incredible vehicle,
On this magnificent orb,
In the depths of the endless abyss.
Is it really, actually, mundane?
Now that you're conscious of it?
