You trace the lines left by others, your own path superimposed on those of the people whose lives and inscrutable motivations might as well have been birthed on an alien planet. You might know them but not in the profound way that you wish were possible. Age confirms the suspicion that almost everyone navigates life by the seat of their ill-fitted pants and that no singular truth prevents you from missteps made a million times by our predecessors. And you wonder why the impolite and persistent dissatisfaction doesn’t abate, not entirely, and never when you’re alone with your thoughts.

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