What we have here is a cycle doomed to repeat itself, to shrink away and outdrink itself every night until it wonders why it drank in the first place. It’s not like life is fun or anything–we have to make the best of it while it’s hanging around, you know? There’s nothing wrong with wanting to blink and be gone, but is that realistic? Where does matter go when it’s not here? It’s there, point taken, but where is there, anyway? That’s the question.
WHARVED 