Hmm I thought I'd revisit my folky-poem I posted a few days ago:

"His death was quick and easy,
They would recall and laugh
Trained all his life, but in the end
He was cut in half"

It's hard to maintain objectivity, but I think that stanza captures perfectly how I've often felt about, well, life, the universe, and everything. I suppose I'm too much a nihilist/fatalist, but there you have it. I remember the day I wrote that poem. I especially remember telling my mother, with a wry smile, "It's alright ma, I'm only a manic depressive" (yet another Dylan reference), right before I got better. Funnily enough, I had to go outside to really feel better - whereas going outside normally makes me upset in the first place. But that's a story for another day.

On the subject of It's Alright Ma, you have to love this quote:

"That he not busy being born
Is busy dying."