#0130. I hate my life. Not my life particularly. All life. I hate its self perpetuation. I hate its arrival from nothingness. I hate its intrinsic lack of meaning. Alice says it is naive to think that everything is a cosmic accident. She gives me her watch. But I don't find the universe as orderly as clockwork, I tell her. You don't need to, she replied. She says she's the big picture expert and I am too rooted in the minutia. When you are a dust mote, I say, minutia is all you have.
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