Life will be life. This is an exhibit of Rationale’s standard of character. This is a syntactic mistake. This is self-evident. This is muddled. Every one of the breakdowns and investigations through the hazy and thick myst of misinformation,Life is Life Articles before long every individual on our planet who has added their viewpoint, there is one thing that none have questioned. Life will be life. What’s more, whether I will invest that energy in an enclosure or in a field really depends on me. I’m going out once more, my aphorism actually sticks: I would prefer to fall flat at my fantasies, than prevail at my bad dreams. Life will be life, and I’m living it with the uprightness I manage the cost of myself.

Still Friday, December 13, 2002, 6:00 P.M., destitute in the French Quarter of New Orleans, as my movement accomplice made a beeline for Maine…

Trouble plagues me as I understand the forlornness of existence without my sibling. Furthermore, as the mitigating, to some degree strong, in every case profound, music merges with my spirit, I understand one repeating reality. Life will be life, and I will be dead sometime in the future, very much like each and every other living creature. What’s more, these feelings of wretchedness and joy, these sentiments that I never let leave, these recollections and considerations, thoughts and wants, every last bit of me, personally, will be dust. So our destiny is something very similar. I will be the supplements that feed the grass, as much as the man close to me. Furthermore, at some point, there will be only our own passing. Furthermore, on the off chance that I could make one visually impaired individual see, provide one tired heart with the solace of affection, support the heavenly messenger of leniency longer by one moment, offer the love for my family somewhat longer, proceed with my regard for legends long dead and past for one more day, give another slice of bread to the eager and destitute, give another deterrent to the ministry and administering class, assuming that these things might be finished before I kick the bucket, before we as a whole bite the dust, then life and demise are a fantasy, and we won’t ever slip into the bad dream of discord.

[Writer’s Note: The accompanying passage has Scarcely intelligible handwriting.]

Sunday, December 29th, 2003, 7:30 P.M., destitute in Another Orleans ghetto…

With the liquor moving through my veins with as much fury as the sun and as much still solemness as the moon, I dread that perhaps life is simply life, and our reality is nevertheless all presence. Endlessly gulped again by the seraphs of trust, this dread breaks down into the marsh of hardship, of history, of non-presence. Only a container of Bacardi and my companions. The weed goes into my lungs and passes all through my body. I comprehend my tipsiness as I compose and as I suspect, as the resources of my mind work in participation with my intoxicated state, and I consider life a being, a thing, a goddess, a dictator, a sweetheart, this, that, everything. Also, I can’t see into the great beyond of tomorrow.

Today was a fascinating endeavor, as was yesterday. The previous evening, I took a pack of Picans and some Gatorade from A&P, then I circumvented giving it to the destitute. Then, at that point, I took a Sprite from a traveler shop, a few batteries from Virgin, end of story. While in Marie Laveau’s, Stray said she was eager for certain carrots. It was fairly arbitrary, yet I vanished, and got back with an entire sack from A&P. I visited her work like 3 or multiple times, bringing anything that she requested last time. She escaped work at 2:00 A.M.. Then, at that point, we strolled to the square, after my evening of savage robbery. Furthermore, it is this frightened taking of food to give the destitute, the obliteration of enterprises and the ascent of individuals, that makes me a progressive, in excess of a dissident, more than a protestor. Increasingly more liquor immerses my blood, as I increase the volume on Paradise 17’s celestial, heart-taking tune. Bacardi, called the surge of freedom to the couple of lushes, called the tickle of unwinding to each elitist, yet called simply one more great opportunity to us vagrants and drain troublemakers. As of now [Author’s Note: The intelligibility was absurd. It looked like a five year old’s handwriting.]

Also, once in a while, I wonder. I wonder about our reality in thought to the history specialist who will live a long time from now. What’s more, I will ask why these individuals made a good attempt to be extreme, so cold without affection. What’s more, I will ponder the degree of their brush off to warmth. Be that as it may, the miracles of their obliviousness and sheer severity, there will be no doubt. Provide for me that desire, that unrestrained longing of empathy, with every one of its features of leniency and truth, of graciousness and love, with all its disdain of ruthlessness and remorselessness, just immaculate and unaffected compassion toward those bound to remember their horrible nature through memory and humankind, and those with a nature to be taken advantage of, controlled, and manhandled. Buy weed in Europe

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