Tuesday, 17 June 2014

For those who see time not as a linear sequence of events, but rather a topographical tapestry of interwoven experiences, every birth is death, every crypt a womb, every moment a mere fleck of paint on a canvas soaked in scarlet. What will our ascendants remember us for? Not our art, not our ingenuity, but our predilection for the pugilation of war. We kill ourselves every day in a futile effort to forget the inevitability of our demise. Were we one, would we still be mortal?


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