And you’ll hope to God you’re good enough to get that money, that job, that girl, through the day. That’s survival.
I hate old Futurism. Are we post-perceptive, now that this is now? Our futureland is just… waste and comical space creation and derivation of terms and just… these are the scenes:
A four year-old sitting alone, possibly studying Actuarial Science in D’Angelo. I feel dumb now.
There’s that point in life were all you have left is your art. It could be now, it might be later. But one day, head in hands, you’ll sigh.