We’re all precious flakes in the eyes of death and there’s nothing left to control once you’ve set it free so let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! Go on, indulge yourself, the shrinking chasm of paradox won’t remain open forever. Vanity or sanity, you decide, but you only get to choose once my friend. Bleeding eyes or blood on the lens, whatever, focus. There ought to be a committee lobbying to oppose these necessities and tribulations. There are far more urgent matters at hand, like the latest storm of the century. A century. That’s a long time to a universe that’s been living for a few billion “years”. Don’t think it will even notice you.

Wait. What?

It doesn’t matter, it’s all for not? Entropic death on a platter of thought? Expand on this with your skull-fucking rot: If purpose is illusion and illusion is bought when illusion is bought then confusion is brought, the purpose of thought being a compulsion that’s fraught, show the world everything you actually think you’ve got. Confused? I said you would be, I called that shot and I did’t even spend money to rearrange the plot, don’t try to sell me on something we’re not, I’m not buying the illusions, so please, just stop.