So many many people each morning are not going to make it to eventide. Every single day large numbers who did not expect it, are dead by suppertime amid great unseen individual lamentations. The tendency of those blaming the triggers rather than the pullers of triggers resembles animals chasing their tails. They perceive but cannot conceive. The resulting sadness of the knowledge of so many who are lost in the invisible vortex of time is so extreme that, personally I can only hope spoons will soon be banned for those who are overweight. Mocking laughter is the extreme anecdote for the sadness of the opposing extreme, tears.
Time hoovers quietly over us all, waiting to absorb us within itself, casting a unique mood of inevitability which if one luckily lives long enough, includes suffering, What is going to happen to us? Will those who are desperate enough to survive, to make it across the river of forgetfulness?
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