I've gone by these names in the past, if for some reason you find me familiar:
Weakness is a great thing, and strength is nothing. When a man is just born, he is weak and flexible; when he dies, he is hard and insensitive. When a tree is growing, it’s tender and pliant, but when it’s dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death’s companions. Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being. Because what has hardened will never win.
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Ever since I met that figurine, I’ve been fleeing the house of my nightmares. But as a baseball player once said, “wish for everything, ‘cause you’ll never get it.” I’m going to murder my wife and be happy forever.