I wonder what it feels like, to have the world unleashed upon you as your singular purpose. Would the selflessness of it all grant the reward of self-righteous gratification? Or would you simply be crushed by the gravity of the agonizing infinitude.
It's endless, isn't it? How do you carry on? Relief could only possibly be met by the promise of a reimbursement. It's coming back. It is.
It's unstoppably, inexorably and overwhelmingly returning - with a undying fury, squelched only by the periodicity of the momentary relief - the same ephemeral relief.
You'll be squeezed.
Alas! Your relief is death, so I can't pity you.
After all, who can pity themselves?