confession #582
90% of my favorite people
are
dead.
The 10% that still
somehow
managed
to survive
are only my
favorites
because
they figured it
out.
100% of
the people
I admire
are
human.
We are
not
immortal.
Someday
our flesh
will turn
into
worm's meat,
our bones
into
homes
for creepy
crawlers.
Our knee caps,
the very first
canvas
for
vulnerability,
will no longer
be ours.
Someday
we
won't be
around to be
admired.
How can I change the world if I'm dead
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