precursor

What a giant cosmic lottery we find ourselves in.

Casting our dice, foreboding with the grand recycling simulation; breathing by the head, wiped out by the tail and grieving at the heart.

It’s all an algebraic flower, to win some and lose. Some say our statistics are equal among each other. Some know the brutality of the absurd hand that cherry-picks the terror it reigns on life, and the thriving blessing of the same.

Whatever dealing there is, only death as an inevitable fact is a true equalizer. But dying, is an accessory to how steeply fate discriminates.

The playwright, acting God, must be marvelling at the endless ways in which its own script flourish in both dread and glory.

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