He knows it can be complex. Inhaling the cognitive breakdown of a life barely too hard to bear in the arms of a murderous teddy bear called Time. Should I compete with monist views in times of birthdays that seem to forget themselves as hours and days proceed without exemption, even without message? Should I allow myself to fall for temptations of whittling down sensitivity?
Could a mind be treated as a painful tooth, enervated with the help of a dentist, but still so very present with every bite, every quest for tingling taste?
Is it not worth trying to believe in heaven when you realize angels don't exist (at least not on earth)? There must be more than a brain that sleeps in softly, an anesthesia for the fearful, a cotton swab for the brave. More than fighting random monsters without strategy or being high on values you are not that sure about anymore.
Dinosaurs have died for us. And I still miss them. Even though I never really got to know why their strong necks broke so suddenly...
