Did you really exist if when your dead no one remembers you? And all the things you've ever owned are in soggy cardboard boxes in the middle of the ocean? Does the wind still carry your thoughts and ideals? Will the trees you've once planted grow old and die too? Will life really go on?
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A hidden commentary: When writing this post I didn't feel like it was a useful post at all. But looking at things now a few minutes after i posted it there is defiantly some kind of use coming out of it. An existence of a micro universe within every letter. Its like all those unintential breaths and sighs are all their to help create this small place that only exists when no one is reading this. A intricate world bound only by the usefullness of not being usefull. I'm tired of writing the word useful with only one l there it deserveres the two ls that full has. USEFULL there. Live on you microuniverse. May I meet you in your adult hood one day, but never loose your child self and the delicate reasons of why and how you were braught into this tiny existance and life.
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