That's One Of The Many Things I

The World Is Not Real For Me Until It Has Been Pushed Through The Mesh Of Language.

All My Life I Have Lied. I Lied To Escape, I Lied To Be Loved, I Lied For Placement And Power; I Lied To Lie. It Was A Way Of Living; Lies Are Life's Almost-anagram.

What Is Money, After All? Almost Nothing, When One Has A Sufficiency Of It.

He Knows That After Him Everything Will Continue On Much As Before, Except That There Will Be A Minuscule Absence, A Barely Detective Gap In The So-called Grand Scheme, One Unit Fewer Now. Or Not Even That, Not Even An Empty Space Where He Once Was, For All Will Rush Immediately To Fill That Vacuum. Pft. Gone. Recollections Of Him Will Remain In The Minds Of Others For A While, But Presently Those Others Too Will Die And His Few Relics With Them. And Then All Will Be Dark.

For Memory, We Use Our Imagination. We Take A Few Strands Of Real Time And Carry Them With Us, Then Like An Oyster We Create A Pearl Around Them.