NormWhat does your destiny hold?
Destiny, it has been decided, is a determination delineated by devourers of deadhead descriptions. The course of our lives is beyond any of us. Why don’t you please play a ball sport on an autobahn. Death’s decisive deed is our common destination. Deadpan, I can deafeningly deal dearies debilitating decency. Decerebrate decorous decomposing debtors, deferentially. Being brainless might do heartless howlers wonders. Get your hand off it; the future is not in the palm of anybody’s hand. I’d like to see you read my palm: all the lines have been wanked out. Don’t get me started on tea-leaves; I’ll leave you straining for breath. Deriding deranged designers deserves decades of destitution. Life is long but death is longer. It’s a map that can’t be written with any precision. There’s no certainty in predicting what the road is like only that it goes to a deadend. If you could live forever you’d be so decrepit that you’d delight in deathknells. The door to understanding is deadbolted but there’s a catch: it’s not supported by walls and once you step through you can’t come back. The derision of the debauched is a devastatingly deluded decision. We’re all debauched so make with the merriment and pull your digital illusions out. Fate is fatal. I’ll leave you with some levity: literature, literally, is a load of lifeless letters. The denouement: destiny and death: equal.
