Humans are ants traveling to and from their anthills motivated by an imaginary purpose that ends up the same as everything else, which is to suggest that the final sum of everything we attempt to do and know is undone and unknown. Purpose is a farce. Humans as ants craft stupid clichés to belittle the concept of unguided attempt, all the while participating in the grandest unguided attempt of all, which is life.
A back injury, originally diagnosed as a spasm, is now being labeled a bulging thoracic disk. He’s expected to miss at least two weeks.
The only real truth is this: truth is a proxy for falsehood. The general pursuit of truth is a systemic form of appreciation of incorrect guesses. Truth, or the concept of truth to which we all subscribe, truly exists alone in the center of the universe, believed by the author to be an imaginary location found somewhere between the gut and the brain of each and every living person. You want the truth, reader? Here’s the truth. Cookie dough is delicious.
Surgery is not believed to be required. According to doctors working with Gattis, 90-95% of these injuries heal on their own.
“What’s the point of it all?” is a most reasonable question, but is any question a reasonable one when it materializes from the curiosity of the most unreasonable of species? Look at us! We’re floating around in space at a velocity we can’t begin to realize and the best progress we’ve made is a series of constructed limits imposed on their own constructors. You want to know about God? Let me tell you about God, reader. The one true god of man is dogma. Vox populi, vox Dei is as useful a platitude as a whiskey-soaked burp. Men adhering to rules put forth by men before them is what we are, and those men before us took into their hands a ball of failure and mistakes, and punted said ball a thousand years into a future where those mistakes have taken root deep in the ground and societies have been built upon them.
In the meantime, top prospect Christian Bethancourt will continue to fill in at catcher.