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What if I told you these beings had physical bodies? That behind steel walls and stone, lie crippled bodies attached to machines you couldn't even begin to comprehend?
-That these gods of old are ancient aliens tugging on the final stretches of their life-strings, slowly dying inside a life support system that is failing, and no one knows how to fix? What is the goal in life? To sow the seed, to reproduce, to leave a mark on this world.
When that spark of life begins to fade and die, much like a candle reaching the end of the wick, the urge fight; that fire grows intensely before burning out to eternal dark.
There is truth here. Down below. And there is trash. Up above.
I find myself- a lowly garbage man, knee deep in sediment, and that is the only truth I know.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
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