because it seems like each day is meaningless against the fabric of life. what is being accomplished? what is being done? is anything good coming out of this pain; this hardship? what is the purpose of loving, living, fighting, dying, being?
loving, i suppose, is my reason; even though i doubt that's doing much good.
Car c'est en espérance que nous sommes sauvés. Or, l'espérance qu'on voit n'est plus espérance: ce qu'on voit, peut-on l'espérer encore?
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