Can an object/person exist outside their assigned role?
When do we begin to recognize ourselves with an image/person?
What does the essence of relenting look like?
Can one grieve in the present with a lack of history of the being they are mourning?
When does reproduction become relentless?
Can thought processes exist physically?
Depictions of life are shrouded in confusion.
Laced with fear of the unknown.
But it is always this ironic in the end.
Is it not?
Is this life not wonderful?
