seperated by type and temporality 

 

I’m on vacation”

Why must so much of life be convalescent? What is it that we are all so desperate to recover from? Our childhoods? The weight of the life we’ve built?

Is it not possible to enjoy all of our time in this wildly beautiful world? In what grevious reality must our everyday lives be so dull as for us to desire an escape from them?!

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