Sooner Nebraskan, Later Something Else

It is called a firearm. It makes the blackest of all human wishes come true at once, at a distance: that something die. There is evil for you. We cannot get rid of mankind’s fleetingly wicked wishes. We can get rid of the machines that make them come true. I give you a holy world: DISARM.

Sometimes I find myself wishing that the world would end in my lifetime, since that would be oddly flattering; we’d all be part of humanity’s apex. That’s about as great an accomplishment as I can hope for, since I just don’t see how I will possibly get into heaven, Rapture or otherwise.

The desire to be cool is - ultimately - the desire to be rescued. It’s the desire to be pulled from the unwashed masses of society. It’s the desire to be advanced beyond the faceless humanoid robots who will die unheralded deaths and never truly matter, mostly because they all lived the same pedestrian life. Without the spoils of exclusionary coolness, we’re just cogs in the struggle.

[T]hough coincidences certainly happen in ordinary life, they have no point there except to suggest that life at times is capable of forming rudimentary literary designs, thereby seeming to be almost on the point of making sense.

I feel no sense of responsibility now for a time of which I recall not a single trace.

They spin out other wild yarns of this nature - by such tricks,
Perhaps, hoping to show they aren’t so far out in the sticks
That even gods don’t visit. Maybe that’s why they regale
Us with such curious lore - or other motives might prevail:
The human race is always all-ears for a fairy tale.