There is something about the still beating heart of a tea cup. Life pulsing, though drank to the dregs. Meant to be filled. Meant to be emptied. If left alone with no companion to drink, the fullness becomes stale. Cold. Unpleasant. The only recourse is to discard what remains and boil and water again. A life in which meaning is only found through the process of being given everything and then have it all, slowly, taken away. Or perhaps, given away. Not unlike ourselves…
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