I go
to a well, deep with shallow thoughs
I descend
to the hole in the ground
I shiver
as the air gets cooler
I stumble
in a rock at the bottom
I fall
on the dry soil
I crawl
towards a dim light
I find
a path leading down below
I walk
in caverns of a distant age
I stare
into the pitch black, hoping to see the light
I lost
my way and the faith of finding the exit
I sit
in darkness, still and stale, as the air
I inhale
the nothingness
I crave
the nothingness
I am.
2015. május 2., szombat
I am
2015. március 10., kedd
Easy
I smell like fish. I sniff my fingers.
I had a tin of trout for supper. Soaked in tomato sauce.
I also had a fine bottle of wine.
It's cold here, though spring is in for like ten days.
But that's just the calendar.
Fatigue. F-A-T-I-G-U-E. Calling it like that instead of tiredness makes it look more grave. I mean, you are so tired you must express yourself using another language. Je suis un peut fatiguée!
Biraz yorgunum. Yoruldum.
I always mess up the tense, whatever.
What you never learn, you never know! Right?
When it comes to Turkish grammar, I must agree. How would I know which tense to use by just listening to people speaking? See?
But it doesn't always work like this, as it's impossible to force a universal rule on how things work in general. Things never work as they are supposed to work. Rules are stupid, Teresa! And it's a terrific relief to realize that rules, by their nature are stupid in their very creation.
*Easy*
Kid's a natural. He's got it all.
When you hear that sentence, you know you are in the right place, doing the right thing.
Dad said that my brightest talent (if not the solemn) is that people love me. That's great, right? You aren't doing anything, or at least you feel like you aren't doing anything yet you achieve something you do not necessarily ask for. Fuck my career! Why would I be the next Bukowski or Hemingway? That's just all in my head! Embrace it, Péter! You are loved. But that's pretty much it.
*Easy*
2015. február 18., szerda
Bang and blame
If you could see yourself now. If you could see yourself now, baby, as the tides turn!
But you don't, because you are too much used to be so in control.
You don't see so I have to tell you, roll over me, let me go, it's an old story, even the words we had have grown old. We have grown old. It's not my thing, so let it go.
I wish you could see yourself now. The tables have turned, your hinges held the world while it swung, while it was in motion. The screws have loosened up, and now the world has fallen out of your grasp. I wish you could see yourself now! I could even turn the screw back, as it's almost painful to watch you turn the inside out. But I won't do it. It's not my thing.
Yeah, you have a little worry, I know it all too well. Who dares to cross your threshold? Who risks trespassing your territory? Each kiss that happens to be on your way, tell me, what would you do with it? Another screw to drop to join the other hundreds.
You know that's not my thing.
All the screws from your hinges, you used it for constructing a wicked totem of a god from the past. A god that you adore, a god you will never get rid of. A god that kisses you, tugs you and rubs you, even jumps on you... it beats you and it hits you. Your god! Your love. Your only love.
So let it go! So let me go. Adore your god and get rid of your hinges, the shackles that used to be your enthralling gems once. Your world doesn't revolve around anything but yourself and your love from now on.
And that's the past; so let it go.
2015. február 8., vasárnap
Millow
Hallways
I see
Always
Icy
I told myself: I can write something like this, can't I? So I started to play with words.
Pillow. Willow. Another one? Mellow? Oh, fuck that. That doesn't even rhyme.
Millow. That doesn't exist, but you know what? It exists for me. I've come to the conclusion that it's either doesn't exist and you are afraid to create it, or it doesn't exist so you create it.
Sheesh, I'm already giving myself away. Reaching the conclusion within ~10 lines.
But let's make my statement also the hypothesis of the post. My professors tend to complain about the lack of analysis in my texts, so this should be a proper moment and place to see whether I truly lack the analytical approach.
Open rooms
Contra-zooms
Orange booms. Crescent moons. Another one? I don't have any, already weakening my hypothesis. It seems that things I create have questionable life expectancy and durability at best. It's a never-ending struggle against entropy, which seems to rule not only the basic laws of all living things but fundamentally everything, starting from my room. These days I'm having almost no rest, I caught flu, so anytime I enter my room I just throw things on the ground. All these scattered belongings started to from a neat little island, which bothered me in the first place, but now I'm growing fond of it day by day. It's as if The Enemy, the vile and treacherous Entropy itself decided to create something.
Pictures may
Faces may
Fade away
Fade away
Words may. Promises may.... Another one? Future may? Can the future fade away? We associate the term fading with past things. The phenomenon of time makes us perceive it as a passing thing. Future does fade away, though. See, the things I create fade away: due to various reasons, most of my personal belongings won't exist in a couple of centuries. Most of the information I create are simply going to be erased by the grandiose and impenetrable mechanism of time. And eventually, I'll fade away as well. One day, I'll stop to exist, some people will definitely bury me, then they will die as well, and their grave diggers will die as well. But I suppose I don't have to introduce my readers to the act of passing.
Brothers then
Get close to them
Step outside
Gunmetal sky
Peel away
That doesn't even follow the previous pattern, guys. I won't do anything with it, sorry.
Peel away! What a catchy phrase, though. I've written a post not long ago where I drew some semblance between Achilles and myself. As Homer told, he chose eternal greatness and a short life instead of dying at an old age but in complete obscurity. Does greatness stand the test of time? Does fame stand it? Is there anything in our known world that could practically withstand the grinding wheels of entropy?
Nope.
The reality is as follows: it doesn't matter if we create something or not, because it's either our own idleness or entropy destroying it. We possess the ability to motivate people on a local or a global scale; we are able to compete with entropy and some of us seem to cheat the irreversible process of it; but then again, each and every one of us will fail. We already have arguments on things happening just a few thousands of years ago- why would anyone from the next millenia think that Alexander the Great was a real person? Or, that Péter Lévay had a blog, for that matter. Things we create are destinned to effloresce and then eventually meet their demise.
Children play
Fade away
Where's the scars
Fade away
Fade away
One last thing, though. If we keep in our heads that all we do is predestinned to end, and yet we still persist, we continue creating, we keep fighting that pointless battle, we might even discover things that our normally indolent behavior would prevent from seeing.
And that is...
Entropy is the frame of our lives. The place, this marvellous universe we were born into is all within the monolithic framework of entropy. This is where we are expected to act. This is were we are expected to create. We don't have to change anything in the framework, and if we comply that and stop trying to bend the rules to our will, then, but only then we will see that creation, with all its sweat, doubt and tears is the only, only true joy we can ever experience through our lives.
I see
Always
Icy
I told myself: I can write something like this, can't I? So I started to play with words.
Pillow. Willow. Another one? Mellow? Oh, fuck that. That doesn't even rhyme.
Millow. That doesn't exist, but you know what? It exists for me. I've come to the conclusion that it's either doesn't exist and you are afraid to create it, or it doesn't exist so you create it.
Sheesh, I'm already giving myself away. Reaching the conclusion within ~10 lines.
But let's make my statement also the hypothesis of the post. My professors tend to complain about the lack of analysis in my texts, so this should be a proper moment and place to see whether I truly lack the analytical approach.
Open rooms
Contra-zooms
Orange booms. Crescent moons. Another one? I don't have any, already weakening my hypothesis. It seems that things I create have questionable life expectancy and durability at best. It's a never-ending struggle against entropy, which seems to rule not only the basic laws of all living things but fundamentally everything, starting from my room. These days I'm having almost no rest, I caught flu, so anytime I enter my room I just throw things on the ground. All these scattered belongings started to from a neat little island, which bothered me in the first place, but now I'm growing fond of it day by day. It's as if The Enemy, the vile and treacherous Entropy itself decided to create something.
Pictures may
Faces may
Fade away
Fade away
Words may. Promises may.... Another one? Future may? Can the future fade away? We associate the term fading with past things. The phenomenon of time makes us perceive it as a passing thing. Future does fade away, though. See, the things I create fade away: due to various reasons, most of my personal belongings won't exist in a couple of centuries. Most of the information I create are simply going to be erased by the grandiose and impenetrable mechanism of time. And eventually, I'll fade away as well. One day, I'll stop to exist, some people will definitely bury me, then they will die as well, and their grave diggers will die as well. But I suppose I don't have to introduce my readers to the act of passing.
Brothers then
Get close to them
Step outside
Gunmetal sky
Peel away
That doesn't even follow the previous pattern, guys. I won't do anything with it, sorry.
Peel away! What a catchy phrase, though. I've written a post not long ago where I drew some semblance between Achilles and myself. As Homer told, he chose eternal greatness and a short life instead of dying at an old age but in complete obscurity. Does greatness stand the test of time? Does fame stand it? Is there anything in our known world that could practically withstand the grinding wheels of entropy?
Nope.
The reality is as follows: it doesn't matter if we create something or not, because it's either our own idleness or entropy destroying it. We possess the ability to motivate people on a local or a global scale; we are able to compete with entropy and some of us seem to cheat the irreversible process of it; but then again, each and every one of us will fail. We already have arguments on things happening just a few thousands of years ago- why would anyone from the next millenia think that Alexander the Great was a real person? Or, that Péter Lévay had a blog, for that matter. Things we create are destinned to effloresce and then eventually meet their demise.
Children play
Fade away
Where's the scars
Fade away
Fade away
One last thing, though. If we keep in our heads that all we do is predestinned to end, and yet we still persist, we continue creating, we keep fighting that pointless battle, we might even discover things that our normally indolent behavior would prevent from seeing.
And that is...
Entropy is the frame of our lives. The place, this marvellous universe we were born into is all within the monolithic framework of entropy. This is where we are expected to act. This is were we are expected to create. We don't have to change anything in the framework, and if we comply that and stop trying to bend the rules to our will, then, but only then we will see that creation, with all its sweat, doubt and tears is the only, only true joy we can ever experience through our lives.
2015. január 21., szerda
Fallacy
What's the difference?
When you smoke and you don't, when you speak or you don't; when you love and when you don't. Once, you are that smoker, silent introvert, and the other day you prefer air, telling stories and loving the shit out of people.
What's the difference?
I suppose it's all in your head. The fallacy of relying upon people's opinion is the most treacherous deceptions you could face. You stretch your arms and legs, your mind and everything, hoping that you could reach the treasure, the pot of gold or call it as you like. You try; and you fail. Because they will say you can't. You won't. You aren't able to. You ridicule yourself. Your talents are being wasted. Your years are being wasted. You clinch a lot but hold little. You act like you do a lot but you do little.
Yeah, people feed on your uncertainty. You long forgot that they judge because they are unsure about themselves. Why would you remember this most simple yet very hideous fallacy? Why, if, it questions the sole purpose of your existence?
It's a war on your existence, remember that. It's an everlasting battle. A clash which assumes from the very beginning that you'd endure for long but eventually meet your expected and pitiful demise. The kind of battle that is destinned from its origo to fail.
It's a massacre. It's a massacre because you dive into it, telling yourself that there is a challenge lurking below the amassing sea of opinions. The waves of fallacy, again. The battle can't be won, but you can't recognize your direction; you keep on fighting as the waves hit you. You actually hit back, you hit strong and some waves fall; but it's an infinite ocean you are facing, the type Solaris depicted. A thinking, wise and almighty ocean.
Ridiculously enough, nobody asked you to fight. Nobody demanded you to initiate what is a predestinned but procstrinated death of your very character. Nope. There is option B. The option that you could actually stay on the land. That, even if the ocean has the real power, the land keeps you high. And dry. Sure, it's always nice to swim a little in this ocean. But to fight it? Who the fuck told you to do that? Who suggested you this idiocy?
Yeah, the ocean lured you in. You sorry, little person.
I'm now in shallow water, guys. Laying in the sand, on my face. It's like fighting a war against the ocean of opinions, but ridiculing myself for not even trying hard enough to accept a challenge. But it's fine. From my perspective, I'm fighting the same battle I've just explained.
But now both the ocean and the land laugh at me.
When you smoke and you don't, when you speak or you don't; when you love and when you don't. Once, you are that smoker, silent introvert, and the other day you prefer air, telling stories and loving the shit out of people.
What's the difference?
I suppose it's all in your head. The fallacy of relying upon people's opinion is the most treacherous deceptions you could face. You stretch your arms and legs, your mind and everything, hoping that you could reach the treasure, the pot of gold or call it as you like. You try; and you fail. Because they will say you can't. You won't. You aren't able to. You ridicule yourself. Your talents are being wasted. Your years are being wasted. You clinch a lot but hold little. You act like you do a lot but you do little.
Yeah, people feed on your uncertainty. You long forgot that they judge because they are unsure about themselves. Why would you remember this most simple yet very hideous fallacy? Why, if, it questions the sole purpose of your existence?
It's a war on your existence, remember that. It's an everlasting battle. A clash which assumes from the very beginning that you'd endure for long but eventually meet your expected and pitiful demise. The kind of battle that is destinned from its origo to fail.
It's a massacre. It's a massacre because you dive into it, telling yourself that there is a challenge lurking below the amassing sea of opinions. The waves of fallacy, again. The battle can't be won, but you can't recognize your direction; you keep on fighting as the waves hit you. You actually hit back, you hit strong and some waves fall; but it's an infinite ocean you are facing, the type Solaris depicted. A thinking, wise and almighty ocean.
Ridiculously enough, nobody asked you to fight. Nobody demanded you to initiate what is a predestinned but procstrinated death of your very character. Nope. There is option B. The option that you could actually stay on the land. That, even if the ocean has the real power, the land keeps you high. And dry. Sure, it's always nice to swim a little in this ocean. But to fight it? Who the fuck told you to do that? Who suggested you this idiocy?
Yeah, the ocean lured you in. You sorry, little person.
I'm now in shallow water, guys. Laying in the sand, on my face. It's like fighting a war against the ocean of opinions, but ridiculing myself for not even trying hard enough to accept a challenge. But it's fine. From my perspective, I'm fighting the same battle I've just explained.
But now both the ocean and the land laugh at me.
2015. január 6., kedd
Black and White
People are bored of black and white things. They want shit to be colorful. They want shit to be complicated. Well, here is the thing: people, you are all wrong.
Look, I understand your need for complicated things. You always want something chiselled, that is your very nature; and that is cool for me. But don't you dare to make me follow you, don't you dare to make me adopt your wicked creed.
I could go to lengthy explanations and make you see what I mean, but instead of bathing in the shallow waters of the black and white philosophy, I present you an example that is simple yet amusing.
Skin. White skin used to represent the aristocracy a couple of decades before. Fair skin is not cool these days anymore: women (and even men) roast themselves until they resemble a gigantic, walking orange. Fair skin is the sign of malnourishment, lack of iron in our blood or just simply lack of sunshine. It stopped being cool.
Clothing. Black clothes are widely considered to be depressing if combined. Folks will think you are either in your teenages and follow some obscure death metal group/ sect or just simply lack the basic need for wearing feasible clothes. It was -let's admit- never cool.
And yet here you stand.
Ivory skin and ebony clothes. The perfect combination. Not a malnourished death metal fanatic, nor a tasteless night receptionist.
Nope.
The dazzling beauty of two of the simplest colors.
Take the colorful shit, people! Complicate your things. Raise your standards to skies. Make it impossible for anyone to reach. Create an ideal image of your preference that is unavailable here on Earth and even god himself would laugh at the mere idea of it.
Go on, people. Raise demands and expectations. Dream of the colors. Dream that you find the bottom of the rainbow. That you find the pot of gold.
I am completely cool with black and white.
Yeah. I am completely complete with black and white.
Look, I understand your need for complicated things. You always want something chiselled, that is your very nature; and that is cool for me. But don't you dare to make me follow you, don't you dare to make me adopt your wicked creed.
I could go to lengthy explanations and make you see what I mean, but instead of bathing in the shallow waters of the black and white philosophy, I present you an example that is simple yet amusing.
Skin. White skin used to represent the aristocracy a couple of decades before. Fair skin is not cool these days anymore: women (and even men) roast themselves until they resemble a gigantic, walking orange. Fair skin is the sign of malnourishment, lack of iron in our blood or just simply lack of sunshine. It stopped being cool.
Clothing. Black clothes are widely considered to be depressing if combined. Folks will think you are either in your teenages and follow some obscure death metal group/ sect or just simply lack the basic need for wearing feasible clothes. It was -let's admit- never cool.
And yet here you stand.
Ivory skin and ebony clothes. The perfect combination. Not a malnourished death metal fanatic, nor a tasteless night receptionist.
Nope.
The dazzling beauty of two of the simplest colors.
Take the colorful shit, people! Complicate your things. Raise your standards to skies. Make it impossible for anyone to reach. Create an ideal image of your preference that is unavailable here on Earth and even god himself would laugh at the mere idea of it.
Go on, people. Raise demands and expectations. Dream of the colors. Dream that you find the bottom of the rainbow. That you find the pot of gold.
I am completely cool with black and white.
Yeah. I am completely complete with black and white.
2014. december 27., szombat
Anthem
Afterlife. The promise of paradise. Fuck it, who needs paradise. Just afterlife. The word tells you everything. When you die, you do not actually die. You continue existing. You had so much fun that it has to become everlasting. Right?
Your carcass will be left on Earth; your soul, conveniently shaped just the way you looked liked during your life, will float to the eternal lands of Afterlife.
I am not describing any religious, whimsical archetype of heaven or paradise. I am proud enough to create my own little afterlife scenario. To demonstrate how admittance works, I present you a generic conversation. The protagonist walks up to a shiny, golden gate with a woman on guard; this woman should be the protagonist's mundane love.
I. Entrance
- Heaven seems prettier with you.
- Oh, shut up Abel.
- So what's the catch? I'm confessing my sins and you let me enter heaven?
- Right on the spot, as always. Well, if you want to enter, you gotta bend me over and take me from behind as you never did before.
- Ha! That doesn't sound appropriate, though I'm getting a sluggish boner here...
- So what are you waiting for? Take me and enter!
- No, wait a sec' hon'. This is a test. I knew it! Shit, you are the devil himself...
- Abel, your sexual need is encrypted in your DNA. Devil isn't. Heaven isn't.
- And yet I'm here at the gates of heaven.
- Well, I wouldn't say it's heaven...
- But I died. This is some kind of afterlife, and...
- Abel! These clouds floating around would never fuck me. Please, don't let me hanging here.
- I'm a bit disappointed with this afterlife thing. It's not like I don't appreciate the idea of having sex with you in order to enter, but still...
- So what the hell you expected? Saint Peter evaluating your life? Fanfares and angels accompanying on your way to heaven? Meeting your beloved ones? Chatting with Einstein about relativity? Bullshit! You just make that up down there. That life is nothing more than reproducing your species.
- Why on earth I would like entering heaven then? What's in for me?
- Actually, there is no option. You don't even have to fuck me... I'm just a little bored here. I have to let you in anyhow.
- Let me in, then.
- There you go.
- Oh! And what will I find?
- The transfer.
- The what?
- The transfer. Your performance will be evaluated, then you will receive a grade, and according to your total production, they send you back.
- What the hell? Did the Wachowski brothers write this shit? And what performance?
- Your performance regarding reproduction. I'm not familiar with your score, but I heard you weren't doing great...
- What the fuck is that suppose to mean?
- Well, you had no children, you slept with several women but failed to impregnate any. Probably you will be dropped somewhere in Europe. You know, ageing society and all...
- Okay just let me pass.
II. Transfer
Abel arrives at the transfer. His father welcomes him with a jolly smile.
- Father?
- Abel! You son of a bitch, you die and our lineage dries up as a puddle of semen on the carpet!
- I guess I wasn't expecting that, father...
- The hell cares, you whiny bastard! Now, you heard how it goes.
- What?
- The transfer.
- Oh, she told me something but...
- She knows it well enough. I'll pick you a country and a family. I hope you won't disappoint them!
- To hell with all this, father! I just died and you are sending me back to Earth just to reproduce?
- Right as you say.
- This is insane.
- Not being able to impregnate anyone is insane! When I got here I was transferred to fuckin' China! You know why? Birth control! They found out that I reproduced myself too frequently. So they barred me the next time by sending me to China! Ha, idiots! The next time I was here, they registered me as a unique predicament!
- That is downright wicked. Father, if life's sole meaning is to reproduce your genome, I would very much prefer to stay here and listen to your mighty saga on inseminating every country around the globe.
- Son, stop being a pussy. Life's sole meaning is indeed to reproduce your genom. But luckily our brains have evolved a lot, making us capable for doing a little tinkering between two intercourses. Science, arts, religion, politics, sports, some prefer fighting in wars; you are spoilt for choice when it comes to filling up your free time. Just keep in mind what your initial goal is.
- So where is the end of the cycle?
- Until our free time activities exterminate our species.
- And how will I remember my goal?
- You won't. Your memory is erased. You'll start over. Format C, if you know what I mean.
- Father... I'm disappointed.
- Oh quit griping, you miserable ass! You've always taken shit too serious. Okay, let's see where they send you...
- They? Who are they? Are they any similar to some deities?
- No time to explain that son. Your ticket has arrived.
- What does it say?
- I can't tell you that. Now, close your eyes and start spinning around...
- Really?
- Nope, I was joking. Stay put. I'll touch your forehead, and then everything will reset.
III. Arrival
Hospital corridor, young man is sitting on a fridge-like object. Nurse rushes out.
- Young man! You are a father now! He was born just a few minutes before!
- And my wife?
- She struggled a lot, but feels fine. Want to see them?
He wants, surely. He never knew how it will feel like. He rushes in the hospital room, his wife sleeping, and a tiny little package, neatly covered with blanket next to her.
- There you are!
- Sir? Sorry to bother... but what would be his name?
- The same as his father. The same as his father...
Your carcass will be left on Earth; your soul, conveniently shaped just the way you looked liked during your life, will float to the eternal lands of Afterlife.
I am not describing any religious, whimsical archetype of heaven or paradise. I am proud enough to create my own little afterlife scenario. To demonstrate how admittance works, I present you a generic conversation. The protagonist walks up to a shiny, golden gate with a woman on guard; this woman should be the protagonist's mundane love.
I. Entrance
- Heaven seems prettier with you.
- Oh, shut up Abel.
- So what's the catch? I'm confessing my sins and you let me enter heaven?
- Right on the spot, as always. Well, if you want to enter, you gotta bend me over and take me from behind as you never did before.
- Ha! That doesn't sound appropriate, though I'm getting a sluggish boner here...
- So what are you waiting for? Take me and enter!
- No, wait a sec' hon'. This is a test. I knew it! Shit, you are the devil himself...
- Abel, your sexual need is encrypted in your DNA. Devil isn't. Heaven isn't.
- And yet I'm here at the gates of heaven.
- Well, I wouldn't say it's heaven...
- But I died. This is some kind of afterlife, and...
- Abel! These clouds floating around would never fuck me. Please, don't let me hanging here.
- I'm a bit disappointed with this afterlife thing. It's not like I don't appreciate the idea of having sex with you in order to enter, but still...
- So what the hell you expected? Saint Peter evaluating your life? Fanfares and angels accompanying on your way to heaven? Meeting your beloved ones? Chatting with Einstein about relativity? Bullshit! You just make that up down there. That life is nothing more than reproducing your species.
- Why on earth I would like entering heaven then? What's in for me?
- Actually, there is no option. You don't even have to fuck me... I'm just a little bored here. I have to let you in anyhow.
- Let me in, then.
- There you go.
- Oh! And what will I find?
- The transfer.
- The what?
- The transfer. Your performance will be evaluated, then you will receive a grade, and according to your total production, they send you back.
- What the hell? Did the Wachowski brothers write this shit? And what performance?
- Your performance regarding reproduction. I'm not familiar with your score, but I heard you weren't doing great...
- What the fuck is that suppose to mean?
- Well, you had no children, you slept with several women but failed to impregnate any. Probably you will be dropped somewhere in Europe. You know, ageing society and all...
- Okay just let me pass.
II. Transfer
Abel arrives at the transfer. His father welcomes him with a jolly smile.
- Father?
- Abel! You son of a bitch, you die and our lineage dries up as a puddle of semen on the carpet!
- I guess I wasn't expecting that, father...
- The hell cares, you whiny bastard! Now, you heard how it goes.
- What?
- The transfer.
- Oh, she told me something but...
- She knows it well enough. I'll pick you a country and a family. I hope you won't disappoint them!
- To hell with all this, father! I just died and you are sending me back to Earth just to reproduce?
- Right as you say.
- This is insane.
- Not being able to impregnate anyone is insane! When I got here I was transferred to fuckin' China! You know why? Birth control! They found out that I reproduced myself too frequently. So they barred me the next time by sending me to China! Ha, idiots! The next time I was here, they registered me as a unique predicament!
- That is downright wicked. Father, if life's sole meaning is to reproduce your genome, I would very much prefer to stay here and listen to your mighty saga on inseminating every country around the globe.
- Son, stop being a pussy. Life's sole meaning is indeed to reproduce your genom. But luckily our brains have evolved a lot, making us capable for doing a little tinkering between two intercourses. Science, arts, religion, politics, sports, some prefer fighting in wars; you are spoilt for choice when it comes to filling up your free time. Just keep in mind what your initial goal is.
- So where is the end of the cycle?
- Until our free time activities exterminate our species.
- And how will I remember my goal?
- You won't. Your memory is erased. You'll start over. Format C, if you know what I mean.
- Father... I'm disappointed.
- Oh quit griping, you miserable ass! You've always taken shit too serious. Okay, let's see where they send you...
- They? Who are they? Are they any similar to some deities?
- No time to explain that son. Your ticket has arrived.
- What does it say?
- I can't tell you that. Now, close your eyes and start spinning around...
- Really?
- Nope, I was joking. Stay put. I'll touch your forehead, and then everything will reset.
III. Arrival
Hospital corridor, young man is sitting on a fridge-like object. Nurse rushes out.
- Young man! You are a father now! He was born just a few minutes before!
- And my wife?
- She struggled a lot, but feels fine. Want to see them?
He wants, surely. He never knew how it will feel like. He rushes in the hospital room, his wife sleeping, and a tiny little package, neatly covered with blanket next to her.
- There you are!
- Sir? Sorry to bother... but what would be his name?
- The same as his father. The same as his father...
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