The dead parts

I was already gone; for what is a human without desire and hope, without someone who cares for him and someone he cares for, and, above all, without a will to live?

An inferior machine is a more fitting description, and if there was a machine that could do my future job then I would have nothing to add to anything.

I found comfort (and even familiarity) in the noises of my empty days. The sounds of the wind, the sounds of cars, the sound of my equally-spaced footsteps that I have mastered over years of walking alone and having nothing better to do.

My life no longer has those distinct divisions of past, present, and future. It all appears like a dot on the expanding line of history.
A single painting that is not completely finished, but just enough to show that its completion is unnecessary and undesirable.

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