the writer, author and the narrator had scheduled an appointment to meet and discuss their philosophies over pages but the writer was never seen, apparently he had yet to be understood. the narrator, unreliable as he is, waited around in limbo, sitting and looking rather pointedly in all directions as if circling the compass while the author supposedly sat, amused, writing himself into existence through active characterization and retrospective reflection. readers beware, he wrote. spirits evoked, the lyrics spoke of hope in remote times of distant memories while every other existential author (dead or alive) began to further question their identity. remember me?

said that voice inside your head.

those afraid of living are better off dead.

learn to die, plato said.

i was never alive, having learned lessons from the east i find out that the words we use to understand the world are cheap, crude and weak until we choose to manipulate them in a way that makes others try to understand the language that you speak.

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