life races on, hurriedly pushing us forward –
towards who only knows what?
racing, never slowing, until the end of days –
until we meet our final destiny.
dreams of that life to come sustain us…
keep us afloat when the misery and miasma
of that which is the rat race
would threaten to drown us in its gloom.
who of us can say we’ve lived?
which of us can throw that first stone,
surrounded by walls of a glass house,
pointing an accusatory finger?
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