I sometimes wonder
if I should write a Substack (if only to pay for all the other Substacks I subscribe to). but that has a heavy air of futility and obligation hanging around it.
And superfluity. So many voices yammering, opining. The din fills the ether. Rising like smoke, like prayers, polluting the noösphere. Another effluent of this swarm.
Thoughts are just a kind of excretion of futility. You can think yourself bloody against the iron wall of power.
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