Life's a glittery dumpster fire and honestly? Gorgeous. Coffee's lukewarm, that's a betrayal, but look, birds, doing their little bird things, no clue they're one gust from becoming a windshield statistic, and somehow that's the most romantic fact I own. Everything's connected, everything's temporary, everything's a little hilarious once you notice nobody's driving. Grow tomatoes, name them, eat them, deeply unsettling if you sit with it, but also, salad, so. Love's real, probably, also just a chemical hiccup evolution invented so we'd stop dying alone, still counts though, ten out of ten, would recommend. Consciousness is maybe just the universe waking up briefly to make toast and worry about texts, weird flex, but okay. Sunsets are the sky bleeding out slow, every single day, and we call it pretty, and honestly? Correct. Dogs are perfect and they die, that's the whole contract, sign here, no notes, don't read the fine print. You'll forget most of today by next Tuesday and most of your life by the time you're compost, and that's either freeing or horrifying, jumbled together, like words that got in a scuffle and swapped seats halfway through their own sentence. Whales sing across whole oceans and we still can't figure out group chats. Bees are dying, ice caps too, but also, look, a puppy, look at the puppy. Anyway, go frolic, skip a little, the void's out there, patient, unimpressed, but so's dessert, so really, who's actually winning here.
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