Every second of your definitionally temporary consciousness, you are choosing how you spend something that will not last forever.

My thoughts are starts I can't fathom into constellations.

And imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present.

History doesn't have a curfew.

Caroline is no longer sufffering from personhood.

But it is a pipe." "No, it's not," I said. It's a drawing of a pipe. Get it? All representations of a thing are inherently abstract. It's very clever.

Go spit in the face of our inevitable obsolescence and finish your @#$&ng novel.