That the entire history of mankind is the story of the protracted suicide of living matter, which cosmic accident endowed with the ability to think and which did not know what to do with this accidental fatal ability, period. And found no better use for it than to create the most efficient means of total suicide. Art that captures our unearthly longing for an ideal, our endless despair and our universal cry of terror. The cry of lonely, thinking beings in the cold, indifferent desert of space. I'm going to retire to my room now, and it's all over for me. After all, we are grown men, and death is not so terrible when everything has perished. Total suicide
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