Entropic

Every moment is a death. Time’s march becoming shorter, waning in fervor. Every moment the death of not just a second. A soul leaves a body a thousand miles away, or in the next room. Entropy will have its payment. Every one of these seconds another cell dies in a fruitless division attempting to create some pale shadow of immortality, to buy another moment in time. Every living thing wanting it’s mark on the world to be made by being the last life, the first one to truly die alone. This is it, the futility in the whims of those doomed to death. Even the stars pay back their eons of borrowed time. Nothing can survive the eternity. Death itself will one day fall on it’s blade. The atoms will even one day be rendered, their constituents separated and made rigid in the cold. If there is something here it can never be destroyed. If there is nothing then, then there is nothing now.

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