The other night I lay bed thinking. I saw an assembly line. This line was churning out people; all different shapes and sizes, most of them starting out small, haughty and smooth skinned, but all reached the end of the line slower and fatter than they started. The glow that once lit their eyes had darkened; now replaced with a penetrating darkness. There was no choice, it was as if they were different makes and models of the same organism. Some with strong hearts and backs, others with sharp minds, but all fading slowly into mundane decrepitude. If our brains and consciousness are nothing more than the emergent biproduct of chemical reaction, do we really choose? The funny thing about this question is that it is not only unscientific, but it is also inconsequential. We play the cards we are dealt, then fade as others rise. Mortality is a wearisome beast.
deus ex machina- any inferior plot device that expeditiously solves the conflict of a narrative
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