Hours will pass, days will pass, months will pass, years will pass.
In the end, everything will pass.
Nothing will remain.
Not just of us, but of anything, of anyone, of any thing.
So what's the point?
What's the point in holding on, in worrying, in hoping?
I don't care about anything — but in truth, I never have.
I don't care about existing, about experiences, about the gestures of daily life.
There is nothing in life that makes it feel appealing to me.
It was just a brief, forced parenthesis,
in which I had to endure a constant suffering
because someone decided I had to be born.
And so, without asking me, they imprisoned me here.