#182 July 1.

#182 July 1.

Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and God was not there. The
cold, suffocating dark goes on forever, and we are alone…
Live our lives lacking anything better to do. Devise reasons later.
Born from oblivion, bear children, hellbound as ourselves, go into oblivion.
There’s nothing else.

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it
for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world
is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It’s not God who kills the
children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs.
It’s us. Only us.
209 Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its
illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl my own
design on this morally blank world. Was Rorschach.

Does that answer your questions doctor?

-From the DC graphic novel “Watchmen” by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons