Classic Poem

People all over the world want proof of death. But no one has ever witnessed death. In the end, people may be a mere illusion, and reality the greatest common divisor of such things. Instead of people, objects begin to ask questions. About life. About its existence. Even if a chair questions, I must be afraid. Reality may be the least common multiple of such things. Incidentally, how can a man unable to feel melancholy about the fate of people stake his life on this world of disturbances? On occasion geniuses have appeared, only to make nothingness more precise. The self-evident, too, has merely deepened the turmoil in broad daylight.
Maybe he tried to tell them something. But I'll write only about facts. First, his knees gave in, hit the ground, and he fell. Among the people who ran up to him, a young man just about my age murmured, " A beautiful face. And worse, he believes in the world like a flower! "