Is there immortal truth in our thoughts and actions?
Will the tides sweep us aside like those before us?
The challenge of humanity is to temper our natural
appetites and to conserve that which we have been
given.
You fell down so often and I was always there to
pick you up. Now, we hardly talk at all. This brings
a sense of sadness to me. It is a change, we are
becoming different people. I don't think I can keep
pretending anymore.
What voice do you hear when you read this?
I've conceded, there is only conceit in this.
The body must rest when the mind can no longer
bear to be awake.
Can we construct a narrative from individual lines
and passages? Can we find meaning in disorder?
Is this what I'm talking about?
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