Images of an old-school train bar car, Southern California in the late afternoon sun, no one ever has to worry about what to wear in Los Angeles and everything's just the right shade of comfortable. Outside my window, a restless New York summer races past while I rot away in a mess of my own making. Flip through the pages of my youth to see nothing has ever changed, nothing was ever different. Perhaps that should be a comfort. But if we have 60 years left of the same, what's the use of even one?
Sometimes the futility of life will hit you like a misguided firecracker on the Fourth of July. It's stupid to even risk, stupid to get so close when you know what can happen but you think you're invincible and suddenly it's pierced your very bowels and you spiral into the inevitable abyss that is enlightenment. There is no point to any of this.
What do we do with our lives, knowing?
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