"What’s your problem, Davie?"

"I see a bird. With tits. That’s not good.

Mortals end is boring, follows
boring reasons. Usually it’s wounds and diseases their body can’t confront. And what is an immortals end? Your body has no fear of every kind of wound, you don’t need to feed it, no disease can take it, no ages.

 However, there’s always a catch. In this realm, at least.

 End of mortal is distant and known to come when needed. Your end is always here, with you. It is in your head. You named it the Delusion, the curse of your kind. A creature, invisible to other eyes, comes asudden, it exhaust not your body but your mind until you turn into nothing, until you become insane, until people kill you for your crime.  It takes you home you was stolen from, child of the Desert. An end a poet would envy.

“Morality and religion can be exhaustively accounted for by the psychology of error. In every single case, cause and effect are confused, truth is confused with the effects of believing that something is true, or a state of consciousness is confused with its causes.”

—F. Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols, “The Four Great Errors,” §6 (excerpt).

Oh happy day!
A white person/institution gave me a reward or accolade! They made me the face of their campaign! They want to fuck me! Black people have made it in this world! We have made it. Who needs control of resources, community or not to be murdered on nearly a daily basis? White America has acknowledged me. I HAVE ARRIVED.
—  most niggas
The child destined to be a writer is vulnerable to every wind that blows. Now warm, now chill, next joyous, then despairing, the essence of his nature is to escape the atmosphere about him, no matter how stable, even loving. No ties, no binding chains, save those he forges for himself. Or so he thinks. But escape can be delusion, and what he is running from is not the enclosing world and its inhabitants, but his own inadequate self that fears to meet the demands which life makes upon it. Therefore create. Act God. Fashion men and women as Prometheus fashioned them from clay, and, by doing this, work out the unconscious strife within and be reconciled. While in others, imbued with a desire to mould, to instruct, to spread a message that will inspire the reader and so change his world, though the motive may be humane and even noble – many great works have done just this – the source is the same dissatisfaction, a yearning to escape.
—  Daphne du Maurier