My life’s been a circle of violence and degradation long as I can remember. I’m ready to tie it off.
Look. I consider myself a realist, all right, but in philosophical terms, I’m what’s called a pessimist.
Each stilled body so certain that they were more than the sum of their urges, all the useless spinning, tired mind, collision of desire and ignorance.
Death created time to grow the things that it would kill, and you are reborn but into the same life that you’ve always been born into.
We are things that labor under the illusion of having a self, this accretion of sensory experience and feeling, programmed with total assurance that we are each somebody when, in fact, everybody’s nobody.