The city’s as normal, everybody dressed up to be dressed down for the night of booze and cheap concourse. Everybody’s being original, or so says their instruction manual. Some people agree because they’re afraid of speaking their minds, of facing themselves and making the necessary improvements, doing the excavation so to speak. Others agree because they find something within themselves, something that’s really the same. It’s a sweet connection and it makes the world tick by on its own time, instead of being reset eveyr five minutes by a half-hearted or evil-minded taskmaster. That’s love, people, and it only comes to the worthy. The compliant can’t feel love. All they feel is fear, and fear is the root of hate, of foolishness, and the greatest poison to all of civilization.
Conquering your fear of death is not an achievement. Conquering your fear of life…well, only after you do will you truly feel alive.