So goes as we begin and end we continue ourselves even onward with our brandishing marks and scars. So I will write my own.
They say there exists a great perhaps. Whether many believe in this or no, is beyond what anyone could suspect. There are thousands, millions of last words out there and not enough of them are famous. Because we can't all die well known, perhaps as president, maybe as an exceeding inventor or the eyes of science itself. But that is not for us to decide. We are our own famous last words. Our skin left to fall away from us, our eyes left to dim and others to find as empty as we are then, and our hearts, of course, thudding no longer. Those are our last words. The dim of our eyes, the last exhale or inhale, the ricocheting thud in our chests, the blood in our veins stopping where it started. Our last words could be messy, they could be brilliant, and they could be overlooked. "I go to seek a great perhaps", "It's very beautiful over there", "On the contrary", and "How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?" Whether the questions or statements are ever meant to be answered, is up to whomever seeks fit. If you want to have an answer for "I go to seek a great perhaps", you ought to know the great perhaps starts whenever and wherever you decide. It ends as such the same. "It's very beautiful over there"? Everywhere. There is beauty in the eye of the beholder, when you look at the destruction and remnants, there is beauty, too, because what once was there can be life again. "On the contrary"? Of course, Henrik was very sick, and his nurse thought he was doing better. He knew, and had little left but the words. Everything is a contrary. "How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?" Simón wasn't necessarily looking for an answer, less than a response. But we have dozens anyway. There is straight and fast, though that is more of what we feel we push for in the end, the we being...everyone. We all die in some form or another, before we actually die. The labyrinth is the great perhaps. You design it, you furbish it, you perfect it. It is yours. You decide. And so goes for all, we wonder of our great perhaps' when maybe, maybe we'd had them all along. My great perhaps has been staring me in the face since I first saw him in a classroom buzzing with the smell of pizza and space theoreticals. My great perhaps started when my foot touched the ground in the place I reside, when my fingers and heels dug into the trees, and when our lips decided there just weren't enough constellations, and has only further just begun with every word I set in my fashion in my views and splay onto paper paving the road to further my great perhaps. It has certainly only just begun.