every day i grow more hair. this frustrates me, as i never see it gradually. it just... happens. life just.... happens. and i shave it and it comes back. and life goes on and it grows back.

objects have a life of their own in a sense. each follicle of hair existing in ways that i can never comprehend, always of out my grasp. existence is futile in that sense, yet still so beautiful. an existential object that gains meaning to me through its difference from what i would like it to be, yet possess inherent qualities beyond human comprehension.

cruel, but intriguing.

beautiful, but scary.

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