In the reflective corridors of time, a few years later, I find myself revisiting the echoes of my past thoughts. The cool breeze of hindsight brushes against the memories, revealing the unrefined nature of my musings. Nothing, it seems, has truly become defined for me. Maybe, I ponder, I just don't fucking get it. What's the point? Why bother? The narrative takes a poignant turn as the story of Celicus Poor unfolds—a man burdened with the weight of a sick child, a child whose birthday he can't even recall. Yet, despite this heavy reality, he shoulders the responsibility of fatherhood for everyone else. The perplexity of such circumstances swirls around in my thoughts, and I'm left in awe, thinking, "Wow." Chicasso Mill and schizophrenia weave into the tapestry of contemplation. The zones, once familiar, feel a little different these days. The narrative takes a stark turn as a blunt suggestion surfaces: "Don't worry. If it gets too bad, you can always kill yourself." The nonchalant delivery of this statement hangs in the air, a raw expression of the struggles that people may face. The tone becomes darker as the narrative delves into the idea that when life becomes unbearable, some may see suicide as an option. The callous advice to make everyone else feel as bad as you do underscores the desperation that can accompany such thoughts. The weight of the details that make up a day, the ideologies that shape one's identity, all become a heavy mound to bear. The story concludes with a stark image—an empty dial-up box, a metaphor for the void that lingers after grappling with these challenging thoughts. "Here's it," the narrative states, leaving the audience to confront the rawness of the emotions expressed. In this exploration of past reflections, the story grapples with the complexities of life, the burdens individuals carry, and the stark realities that sometimes lead to profound despair. The language is raw and unfiltered, reflecting the unvarnished nature of these introspective musings.