To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.
I think, therefore I am.
To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Why is there anything at all rather than nothing whatsoever?
The life of man is of no greater importance to the universe than that of an oyster.
Everything must justify its existence before the judgment seat of Reason, or give up existence.
Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stranded, stuck fast, untimely wounded, or otherwise deflected from its life's quest of delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment in order to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result — eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly — in you.
