Life itself is a miracle of the universe: a meaningless chance event, born of the blind indifference of matter that, in an outcome-insensitive act, had produced consciousness and with it the anguish of being aware one was alive. Nature is good or evil: simply a process of consuming, of destroying, to keep the purposeless machine moving. All flowers will die, all animals breathe only to choke, all loves bloom only to burst on schedule. All life is merely an animal puppet show sustained by unseen strings controlled by an unseen puppeteer. My life is the same, too: no more noble or more pitiful than any other. I do not revere it or revile it; I merely observe it the way you observe a burning fire that is reducing a vacant house to ashes: futile to inquire why it burns, wiser to acknowledge that everything will be consumed by ash. To be, to me, is not to hope but to see: to see that beauty is a weak parenthesis between horror, and that consciousness is a wound which bleeds thought until it dies out. The sole consistency that still remains with me now is to concur with the absurd without trying to console it.