Traveling backwards through the future is an easy trick. The curse of the old, the fate of the young. A spell cast by Mother Nature that insists upon itself. You will stumble and fall and rise and succeed over and again as the circle completes, shuffling towards the grave, satisfied or aggrieved, and eventually bemoan the world as it is for a world that used to be. Life is a merciless port to shore for your soul. Death is freedom into the sea.
Then again, without life there would no fried chicken.
As my time sifts through the glass, moments of unadulterated joy come fewer and further between, and feel ever less-deserved. On the occasion when I do stumble across those brief, intoxicating moments of cosmic good will, my unfortunate mind quickly succumbs to the gloom, to the golem of hopeless reality haunting this world. The poor. The starving. The painfully dying. The never-had-a-chancers.
Where is their joy?
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