If nature always chooses favourable traits to prevail, and unfavourable kinks to slowly die off, in a few million years, we should all be perfect. Not only will we be experts at survival, but there will be some sort of harmonious utopia of the mind. There will be no conflict; no second-guessing. Suspicion and loathing will drop off the horizon like marbles tipping over a table’s edge.
‘Feud’ will be snipped out of the dictionary, leaving an inconspicuous hole on page 638 where it used to be – an old memory – a tale told by grandmothers to their unsuspecting grandchildren whose minds wander to far-off oases of chocolate, toys, and Spongebob Squarepants. That’s just how it will be. Understanding will flow naturally like a spring mountain runoff.
Writers will sink their bottoms into potholes of January Snow, letting the wetness soak through their jeans, watching people and stars. Waiting for the next mass extinction and the consequent new species to fall into their laps and onto their empty sheets of notebook paper.