Because it attempts to speak truth to hoary, fucked-out ideas. (More precisely, it vomits all over them by dint of its comparative reserve.) It repudiates the idée fixe, and seeks to slash the tendons of those who stand in queue to carry water for the dead. It doesn't give a fuck about its apparent hyper-marginalization. It gave up on everyone a long time ago, but it retains a memory of a willingness to be surprised. It splits its target 99.999% of the time, but refuses to gloat. Fools and slow learners clutter paths, but it is more nimble. It spills over all.
Then, uh, it sleeps until some other dreadful shit comes along, and out come the knives. It inadvertantly stabs itself. Being so lithe and gazelle-like and all, tissues are flung without heed. (It is happier, unafraid to express its joy.) Thus, it seeds another iteration of buffoons, generating the static it eventually must deign to repulse. Futility and fecundity in one perfect fucking package.
And because it knows that you know that it's parsecs beyond. (And because Tom Smith's father's fave composer is John Phillip Sousa, it wins, forever.)
Pregnant with inertia, drunk with indecision, the universe gives birth to time...