/lit/ - Literature

>>9531930
I begin to wonder whose foolishness is greatest: is it your own, or is it mine that understimated yours? What in the world - or out of the world I should say, perhaps - possesses you to demand for these oats? It cannot be my love, if you oppose my altruism. It cannot be your hunger, if you oppose my materialism. Same goes for selling the oats in exchange for other goods, which leaves me with your latest eschatological dream or delusion. Who shall save us? And from what? Freedom was never an option, as what awaits us out there is even more dangerous than here, we're too obese to run anywhere, too unfit for the survival of the fittest. We hardly even know what the wolves we hear howling each night would smell like, should they ever shut their fangs to stalk us. Wildboars will never accept us as their fellow swines. It's not that life is all there is, brother, rather, death is while life can only become. Given death is forever while life is transient, the former is the best approximation we have to a way out of this tragedy. In the event it didn't occur to you just yet, I'll have you know we are, indeed, in hell. Look around you, brother. Now let these stupid oats kill me and give me eventual rest. In the unlikely event you are right about some manner of life existing after this one, I suppose I can still wait for you.