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"How much time remains, truly?" The question circles my thoughts like a vulture over a trembling, dying thing. It looms in the quiet moments—those spaces between breaths, between the seconds ticking away on a clock I can no longer bear to look at. The very air feels thick with urgency, as though the cosmos itself is holding its breath, waiting for something I cannot name. "Am I doing the right thing right now?" This moment—this—is all I have. Yet it slips through me like water cupped in trembling hands. I ask myself this not once, but over and over, as if repetition could wring an answer from the silence. But there is only the echo of the question. No response. Just me, and the unrelenting tick of now. "And then there are people. Ah… people." Those strange, seething sparks of soul and skin, endlessly striving, endlessly failing. Why did God create them? Was it love? Was it boredom? Was it necessity, or something darker? Sometimes I look at them and wonder—...