the great cosmic mystery—wrapped in a riddle, buried in a compost heap of dandelions. What better proof of life's transcendent meaning than a weed with better survival instincts than half the people on a reality show? Truly, nothing screams “divine purpose” quite like a yellow flower thriving in dog urine and municipal pesticide.

And of course, every living thing wants to survive. That’s not meaning—it’s biology’s default setting. Amoebas do it. Tapeworms do it. Jeff from accounting does it, mostly out of habit. If clinging to life was evidence of a grand design, then so is your uncle who’s been “writing a novel” for twenty years and still refuses to die of boredom.

As for other planes of existence, I assume if there is one, it's mostly paperwork and the same waiting room music as here, only louder. But sure, let’s call it a mystery. That’s way more comforting than “chaotic meat accident temporarily animated by electricity