I have vast wealth of food and drink, more than one would need in a week, and nothing to do but play as I like, glide free. The end of days is better than it might seem. It’s ok to smile, our right to feel fine as we slide forever out of time beyond belief. Still seeking revenge for my birth by fading away without worth or meaning. Lazy, ungrateful, no useful purpose. Unable to simply give in to being. What if it’s not about reciprocity, velocity, jealousy masked as scorn? What if the secret unsheathed is once conceived, gestated, born random occurrences synthesize as stories? Phantom worries, gnawing remorse coalesce as lessons, stake the course; but only synapse deep, lightly tangled weave. Tales like talismans gently spin.