I wish life was consistently certain, although I know that it is not. I guess if it was it would take some of the joy out of finding your way. You think you close one chapter, then all of a sudden another book gets hurled at your face, and you try to duck, but it hits you directly in the forehead, knocking you out. You lay there in a dream world of hypotheticals and delusional situations, just to come to and realize some new thought that causes you to think maybe being knocked out was what you needed.


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