It is this outer reach of existential abnegation _ the moment where subjective identity deserts itself and becomes enslaved without consciousness of its subjugated condition _ that Mirbeau consistently sought to decry with horror.

The stuff of nightmare is their plain bread. They butter it with pain. They set their clocks by deathwatch beetles, and thrive the centuries. They were the men with the leather-ribbon whips who sweated up the Pyramids seasoning it with other people's salt and other people's cracked hearts. They coursed Europe on the White Horses of the Plague. They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale. Some must have been lazing clowns, foot props for emperors, princes, and epileptic popes. Then out on the road, Gypsies in time, their populations grew as the world grew, spread, and there was more delicious variety of pain to thrive on. The train put wheels under them and here they run down the log road out of the Gothic and baroque; look at their wagons and coaches, the carving like medieval shrines, all of it stuff once drawn by horses, mules, or, maybe, men.

With an advanced worldview we will know and experience that the whole universe is conscious and infinitely connected and we are connected to all the cosmos and life

I__ either with you forever, or I__ not. I__ not into games or fucking around. I__e had enough experience to know what to hold onto when I get it.

Because that was the problem with society. It cared too much about who you fell in love with but never about why. The why matters.

Why the anchor?""Because sometimes, it's nice to feel like there's someone who can save you.