I have spent my whole life scared. Frightened of things that could happen; might happen; might not happen. Fifty years I've spent like that. Finding myself awake at three a.m. But you know what? Ever since my diagnosis, I sleep just fine.
I came to realize it's that fear is the worst of it, that's the real enemy.
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.
The thing is, if you just do stuff and nothing happens, what's it all mean? What's the point?
So no matter what I do, hooray for me because I'm a great guy? It's all good? No matter how many dogs I kill, I just, what, do an inventory and accept?