What a terrifyingly lonely and pointless existence we all live, then. We are all solipsists at the end, then, because when we die, when the us inside our heads dies, it's as though the universe ends.

If there is no point to life other than what meaning we give it, then I have no life in me because I have no meaning to give life anymore--I have nothing to offer anyone. Used up, burned out, and bitter at 38. Nothing is meaningful anymore; I have become, therefore, the ultimate cynic. Jaded to the point of no return.

We each owe a death--there are no exceptions--but oh, God, sometimes the Green Mile seems so long.