and so fucking what. SO FUCKING WHAT. This is it, this is everything, every past and present, every future and seemingly indistinct moment. Everything is instantaneously existing and unfolding. For once I am liberated to exist, to lay and be consumed. I am exploding and succumbing. I am an undulating ocean, waves subsiding into waves, eyes wide open. And how could I ever be ashamed, how could I ever be afraid? There’s nothing else ever than anything I could ever experience. Why would I ever be fucking ashamed of that? Why would I ever be nervous?
At least for now there is no question. There never was. Why did I ever stop to question myself?
— Ernest Hemingway (Midnight in Paris)