“I don’t really write this to you, you know.
It kind of found its way into your hands,
Into where it belongs.
With destiny as its mail-carrier,
My silent confessions,
Encrypted epiphanies,
And pseudo-intelligible ramblings have all reached you.
The whole ordeal is reverential.
Its deserving of attention;
Note worthy, you might say.
There’s something here,
No more excuses.
Archaeology was never my strong suit,
But I’ve got the weight of a entire mode of thought riding my back.
To keep me on schedule.”
‘Didn’t write it to me, huh?
Then who managed to scribble down the address that Destiny followed?
Just because you picked a name of out a phone book,
Because your actions were more random than planned,
Does not seperate them from your realm of responsibility.
Our life is split,
Two sides,
Two rights,
Two splits.
Two, two, two much to write off as external.
This is what we’ve got.
Chance and intent play an equal part in our lives,
Each pick up where the other got bored.
We can’t cram our hulking mental shape into one camp or the other,
And so we spill over.
Into the world of moral luck,
And the bad faith of transcendence.
But it’s not destiny.
Destiny is wishful thinking.
It’s called chaos.’

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