timo

we expect finality to reveal something definitive about who we are, to make us forgive, regret, or resolve. but what if it does none of those things? we impose our desire for coherence as an obligation on existence itself. it owes no resolution.

what strange ambiguity, to encounter in others the multitudes of our own contradictions. some irreconcilable, none quite cancelling out the others. just matter briefly conscious of itself.