Crusted.

"There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.", said Douglas Adams. Sounded funny at the time, but fills me with anguish today when I find that what makes up the Universe, indeed, does make everything within it. The minute I begin to celebrate something in a person, it disappears. They don't change as much as simply cease to exit/spontaneously combust. Anything I treasure, I either kill or witness its suicide.  The "or", because in a world as sinister as this, who is to say how far goes the reach of our actions, our thoughts, and words? To what degree is one's happiness, or ardour, or anger, or misery one's own? There is this graph... a mesh. There are people who make up points in the graph. And there are lines of control connecting these people. But the lines are so many, so entangled, so intertwined that NO ONE WILL EVER TRULY KNOW WHO IN THE NAME OF A NON-EXISTENT GOD TUGGED AT THE DAMN STRING THAT PULLED A HUNDRED KNOTS AND TORE A FEW THOUSAND VERTICES OUT OF THEIR PLACE FOR THE MILLIONTH TIME THIS VERY MINUTE IN THE GOOGOLPLEXES OF MINUTES THAT PRECEDE IT AND THE GOOGOLPLEXES THAT FOLLOW, TILL TIME ITSELF BECOMES THE PAINFULLY INADEQUATE CONCEPT OF HUMAN INVENTION THAT IT REALLY IS. It could, after all, have been me.