I dont like to ever go anywhere without bearing gifts, and the reason for my self imposed solitude is just that, when I feel like I have nothing to offer, there's nothing left in me to give
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I often say to myself that everything is dead and all hope is lost. It's a bad habit, an intrusive recurring thought that I have to articulate to expel. I think it's more precise, apropos the soup, to say that everything has not yet been born and I can't stand the potential
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Maybe undeath was this all along? The decomposed ghoul, the zombie, the vampire, the liche. Terrible not for their failure to die, but for their failure to be alive. Primordial soup.
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Like how it's just instinctually unsatisfying when scientists talk about "microscopic" alien lifeforms, bacteria and the like. Something in ones heart must protest: No, that is a categorical error. Such things are not life!
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