/lit/ - Literature

3 shots sounded and a man dropped dead. A trumpeter in the middle of the street, looking rather stern and dignified, composed a smirk. Then he unleashed that sentence, “God doesn’t give a fuck.” everybody was crowded around him. They were all in earshot but only I could hear him. I remember the plaid kilt he wore and he looked rather like a stereotypical storybook scotsman. A vicious, full smile crept across his face. He patiently and almost respectfully let the cops arrest him and take him away. His arms behind his back through his own volition, and a calm demeanor as the cops did their only necessary part of putting on the handcuffs. I was a teen at the time, and had seen many an odd thing in my young age, but this stayed with me like a moment of childhood friendship or of deep emptiness in the heart. When I got a little older I started to realize some things. Mostly that the man was right. There was a god, and he most certainly does not give a fuck. For life to be this bleak only by chance is asking for a miracle.
II
I work in a small compact office, in a larger office, in a building, in a district of similar buildings, in a cold, busy city. Hello angela, Goddamn you have such a fat nice ass. What I would give to smack the shit out of it. I bet you’d let out a little moan wouldn’t you? No, she wouldn’t do that. Maybe she would. I mean remember in Millie’s Vacation where the mere sight of Hugh Winchester made her moan a little. God what I would give to have that effect on girls
Ryan, hows it going buddy
Bill, hey what’s shakin man
Bill is a nice enough guy, I guess, but goddamn is he getting annoying. Look at the way his face scrunches up when he talks to you. What a disgusting sight.

Death comes all the same, and fear of its inevitability is what incurs the great sins of man. The powerful cause torment and trouble for the commonfolk because of this fear, but why bother fearing death at all? It is the one great equalizer that no being can escape. We were born from its bosom and shall return to it equally. No amount of cunning will outwit the reaper, no amount of money will bribe the pilot of the river Stix, and no amount of great deeds will keep karma away. Whether by cremation or natural decay, our bodies return to dust, our intellect and experiences sealed permanently, and our souls stay unproven. We return to whence we came, so why fear death?