there once seemed a clear purpose for life. a defined set of obstacles to overcome, that once were behind you life in front of you would surely ease it’s way into a life-long feeling of bliss and control.
i must have been dreaming. nothing seems linear. not even the wisest man in the history of the world sounds like he has a solid understanding of what life is about. unless his acumen for sarcasm, or irony, or trickery, is much higher than anyone would hope to give credit for to any author that made it into the best selling book of all time. twelve chapters of more confusion.
if he can’t figure it out, what are we to do?
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