it's all borrowed time, isn't it? not in a morbid way, just in a shockingly obvious way like when you look up and see the whole impossible apparatus turning above you and realize your little agreements and anxieties are happening inside something much older, something indifferent, something so profoundly other that the word "God" feels childishly inadequate, but the pressure behind the eyes, that familiar hum that starts right behind the temples when the question of purpose comes up again, it's just consciousness bumping up against the edges of itself, isn't it? asking itself why all this effort to notice?