The universe doesn't know we exist, so we tell it.

There is an end, and how we get to the end is all that matters.
You must do something, anything.
Say it is possible that I hate you.
Say it is possible that I love you.
Say that we’re going to vanish and we know we’re going to vanish
but we haven’t vanished yet and we know we haven’t vanished yet.
What this leaves is time— another inning, a near-infinity of generations, of fucking things up and fucking toward knowing more than we know now.

adrina.