We are irreparably selfish, and for reasons beyond my knowledge often we find ourselves unable to admit this. At our very core, we are self-servient; we survived through a properly constructed list of priorities and the placement of our own sustenance at the very top of that list.


    We are unquestionably horrible. The very presence of our race reinforces the clearest truth that we are naught but a plague unto the realm that first granted us life. We are forced into nothingness, we are collectively damned, and the only way out is to renounce our own existence.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    We are irrevocably somber. How much there must be in the world to elect as the source of your sadness, how many opportunities there must remain for every individual to find their inevitable undoing. How many methodologies to create that sadness must our artists hold in their minds, what fragments of them do we see in ourselves?


    My grandmother passed away when I was an infant, yet such is not the sadness that plagues my heart.