and in the end

I never found McCartney’s And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make, to be too deep or inspiring. Recently, read another ending using the same beginning, this one attributed to Margaret Atwood, of course. She said in the end we all become stories. I never thought of of it that way. Now, can’t stop seeing it so. I never knew Otis Spann, the bluesman-pianist who most inspired me, I only know him as a story and that is what he is for the rest of time. What does it do to our time alive which is so profoundly brief and half the size of a subatomic particle? Does it not remind us to reconsider whether we even exist in the first place?

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