If I write another word, nothing changes. If I write no more words, nothing changes. The sun rises, the sun shines, the sun sets, another day, nothing changes. If I die tomorrow, the world turns, time tips over and once more drains away another day. Nothing changes, nothing matters, nothing means anything more than it did a moment ago, another memory of matter decaying into another memory of matter, endlessly ebbing into entropy. If I write no more words, no one will remember, no one will wonder, no one will consider what I could have forged or rended asunder. Another day drains away, another month another year, another lifetime spent in confusion and fear, my life no more a measure of meaning than any other. Nothing changes, nothing lost, nothing gained. But, if I write another word, then perhaps it can matter where none I’ve penned before could, perchance it can persuade like none else I’ve uttered would, possibly that could be the word that transcends the inane and absurd and changes something for the better. A word, one single, simple word could lead to a sentence, mayhap a sentiment so serene yet supreme that others take heed and are freed of despair and doubt for all of a day, and for that one day the delusory doldrums and dilemmas that dog our diurnal duties could be cast away and we could move mountains, nay, all mankind toward a more temperate, tolerant, safe, and sane society. Maybe, against all odds, we can pretend, or at least pretend, that the future can be fair, if only we’d venture there, and all it would take is but a word to wake the world, all it would need is knowing of the seed of such a notion, that all it could take to break the nature of nothing ever changing is but a beginning. But maybe it is but a dream. Maybe tomorrow the sun will summit, shine, and set, and that is all we get. Live, laugh, lose. But maybe, just maybe, I should write another word.