I wake up to haphazard jazz chords, chaos, and an unwelcome light. I wake with words in my dry mouth but they’re jumbled and deranged and I have no will to organize them, no ability to make sense of them, collect them. They’re reaching out into a void, into a world they know as deaf. They reach into silence and wonder whether anybody can feel them, can hold them. They trail across my keyboard trying to say something specific, without the concept to hold them together. They want to expand. They want to interact. They want significance. They want to live. Forever. They want to relate, but they’ve been sitting in a room stale with cigarette smoke, alone, wondering if they fit into this decay of the soul that our generation has been fermenting. I sit with them, my hands shaking above the keys, wondering what they will say next, wondering if they’ll say anything. Is there anything left to say that hasn’t been said? I’m trapped with them. As if this is the only interaction I’m allotted with a sense of dying humanity. What happens when meaning is proven meaningless? Clearly, if we had discovered the meaning, we would know by now. The fact that it has eluded us is merely an indication of its non-existence. We are simply stasis, a sort of floating, living; with no clear idea as to what that is. Is it so difficult to assume that we are not here for a reason, we are not special, we are not destined and we are not meant. We simply exist, like these meaningless words. Any meaning we give at this point is a direct offering to the future of our species, to a time we won’t even get to be a part of. The only thing that can remember you in the future will be a compilation of historical archives, sitting somewhere that collects dust and dying slowly in memory.