Lies. I should go die. In the morning. Get run over by a car in the morning. All a lie. Vagaries of perception. Illusions. For what? An insipid existence of justifying the human intellect's temporary construct of one's significance in the world? Like an inventor knowing the meaning of his inventions, then what is our blueprint? Simple as from ashes to ashes, dust to dust? An endless cycle of pointless meandering?
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