where they buried you

They buried you in the cold ground and then they placed a large monument, in your name, on top of the dirt above your head; nobody came to see it because everyone in your family was already dead. There’s a sort of macabre sense of curiosity that fills me with those questionable questions that you don’t usually ask aloud. Questions, like: what did the bugs eat first? Surely one does not ask that in polite company; even if the curiosity is piqued.

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writing things on the internet

The amount of time you spend forming an argument or perfecting a thought will always be overshadowed by the amount of time available to everyone else to the ends of picking apart your well thought out processes and forming an argument against you. This is not to discourage you; forming opinions is vital to our species. Just prepare yourself for the inevitability that somebody, somewhere, at any point in time, for whatever reason, may have a disagreement with you.

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