Sometimes

I’m finding talking to be a complete waste of time. Even thinking, at this point, is dubious.

One can spend their life on autopilot and it makes little difference than the one who spends their life fighting against the odds. The difference is only in the romantic tragedy of the fighter.

We’re not remembered. We’re not mourned. Life moves on.

Memories get corrupted by bitrot and eventually they are vanquished by death. Nothing remains.

Get over it.