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I fear that my name is nothing more than dust in the sands of the world’s age. I exist only to disappear one day. But I want just one moment— this moment to be mine. A single selfish corner within the entirety of the indifferent cosmos that I can inhabit freely and of my own will. Does it matter that in our tiny, finite, spaces that we cling to some piece of infinity; that we mean something, be remembered for something, become something. I want to record every measurement— length, cm, miles, millimetres, inches — that make the border of my skin and hair, write down something of myself so that proof of my existence though small, fleeting and insignificant remains here.
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Write your name in wet cement.
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