Could it be that I am but a passenger?
The body runs, lusts, hungers, creates wastes...
And I must watch it all, be a passenger to its whims.
The passage of time is inevitable.
The passage of the body, doubly so.
It will do as it pleases and I will watch, ever dutifully on...
Why not then love the body?
It will always be there.
Does the jockey not love his horse?
It will have its way and I will be along for the ride.
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