I think we would all have died out if it were not for the petty passions that we frown upon. I mean yeah there is only so much you can wonder about the cosmos and interpret it, you are left with bullshit at the end of the day no matter how many mysteries you think you have unravelled. The utter futility of exploration in all frontiers bogs you down. There cannot be compeleteness in anything unless you set the parameters of what is compelete. Every painting, scultpure and I guess bit of writing too, stops evolving when the artist gets fed up and wants to wind up and move on to something better. Nothin is keeping us going except for the bloodyminded drive to defeat and survive despite the odds - to really make a difference. Again, it fucking does not matter - however rich, famous and influential you become. Some day the cosmos must fall to dust and with it will go the greatest works you can concieve of. All the ideas, thoughts and inspirations of mankind will one day vanish as if they never were.
just realised there is no fucking point contemplating further on these lines. Which probably, proves my point.
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