At a certain point, there really isn't a need to try and discern the next move, to calculate which causal chains are linked to what -- at a certain point, there isn't really this need to live in the world of one's own head, but, rather, the only pressing thing is to get the shit done, regardless of whether or not it seems possible -- at the end of the day, it's not really my duty to see what's possible, because it is comfortable, to sit in the armchair, to relax one's feet and to watch the constellations of my possible futures drift along the cream colored ceiling overhead, to fantasize, to watch myself save people in this universe and to watch myself die in that one, to debate the aesthetic value of my life, to feel the sense of accomplishment at having gazed navalward and come to the usual friendly epiphanies that bloom all around me, to collect the sprigs and ruminate on them over a quiet dinner, to fall asleep with a sense of accomplishment -- what kind of bullshit life do you have to lead to be truly happy, plushy in a plush chair. It's nice to do once in a while, but the name of the game is to get shit done.

Art by  SqueedgeMonster
Buster is me.