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All we know will eventually die and decay

We all know this, and live is precious since it is fleeting

But when that which we know becomes unknown to us, and faces lose shape

And memory loses meaning in the face of truth

What we thought knowledge, just a ruse

Told to us for no real reason?

It all loses shape and meaning, and turns into a puddle that reeks worse than any corpse of a loved one

Death seems almost like home then, if you really think about it

You will understand some day