I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.

We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.

Nothing is permanent. Not even the end of the world.

My "heart". Does that pitiful organ still represent anything? It lies motionless in my chest, pumping no blood, serving no purpose, and yet my feelings still seem to originate inside its cold walls. My muted sadness, my vague longing, my rare flickers of joy. They pool in the center of my chest and seep out of there, diluted and faint, but real.

Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.

...and we'll see what happens when we say Yes while this rigor mortis world screams No.

It frustrates and fascinates me that we'll never know for sure, that despite the best efforts of historians and scientists and poets, there are some things we'll just never know. What the first song sounded like. How it felt to see the first photograph. Who kissed the first kiss, and if it was any good.