  What are we? Animals with a bad case of schizophrenia we call intellect? Or, perhaps, we're some kind of higher beings trapped in our earthly shells? I really wish I knew... We live our lives, pretending that we're doing something so very important. Jobs, art, parties, fun... What for? Look at the big picture: you are born... you live... you die. Who said that things we do in the tiny flash of light in the dark we call "life" are actually worth anything?
Sure, you can start talking all the high-morale bull. I hope you really believe it, because if not... if not, well then you're just lying to yourself, and if there's something worse than being oblivious, it's not being honest to ourselves. Some say that we live for our children. Our children... We give them life. Why? So they, in their turn, go on contemplating their own purpose? Is there such a thing -- purpose? I hope there is... Because I am out looking for it. 
