Monday, December 18


You read stories like this and you have to wonder about the trajectory of A Life, and whether our mortal bodies are just tugged along from womb to tricycle to blackboard to stage to bed to aisle to their end -- whatever it may be or whenever it may come -- like some kind of toddler bungeed to his busy mother's wrist, looking around, reaching for shiny objects, sucking a lollipop, never stopping 'til mommy says to.

Because who wants to believe in the kind of existence where free will can punk you like that?


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