July 14, 2016
It's late. It's early. Time's dead to itself. It doesn't really matter whether that's a lie or not; it just feel right. It feels like the truth, and that's how we roll in the accidental occident. It's hardly worth it to check the matters in hand. We decide. Thumbs up. Thumbs down. The arena is full of questions waiting for a ruling. Marriage or funeral. One slips into the other and back again. We marry the thought of marrying, and then we die, having forgotten the reason why we die. We just do. It's a game. Early. Late. Doesn't matter.