Passing the hours away. Nothing else to do, nohow to passaway hours. No will to do anything. Better fix it. Only indifference between death and life brings true freedom. Better to die of vodka than of boredom – Maiakovsky. Everything might for a moment seem impossible. Even the simplest action shudders when it is confronted with the enormity of time through which it will not resist. Resisting is impossible. Time will swallow what I was, what I did, where I lived. Time will swallow everything, thus everything is without meaning. God is either curel or incompetent. Or simply he never existed, or should've never existed. What are the roots that clutch you, Son of Man? Everything tastes sour, allthings seem ugly, everywhere hopeless. Time clutches and drags and weighs down, every fiber fights, but death must eventually approach and deliver. Deliver from pain to endless bliss of nothingness. Why must we strugle against the inevitable? We can only live by. For though everything is rendered meaningless by time, so does time make every small deed a necessity. We must spend our time somehow, only without purpose. No purpose necessary, no objective. Just fill time is all we can ever do. If possible.

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