Posted: April 8, 2015 in Uncategorized

I have not tasted some meats. I have not smelled some flowers. I have not spoken to every man, held every child, made love to every woman, and yet I must still die. How cruel is the life so expansive that it can never be complete, and how distraught the completionist who has not rested for fear of the undone, who dies an exhausted, unfulfilled, disappointed wreck, his goal incomplete, his lifestyle a fraud. But still, every generation has its bon vivants, its quietcompletionists, sticking thumbtacks inside the borders of as many countries on the map, amassing a library of books both read and unread, doing their best to organize the human experience and ideally make the process a little faster for the next man down the line, who may stumble across his findings and be stirred to act as his predecessor, only to be struck down with the same disappointment, the same emptiness, the same decay.


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