BUTCHER CUTTER'S BUTTER

This year, I've been drowning in a kind of nihilism more than ever before. Waking up in the morning, it felt natural to be greeted by that same anxiety— one I've come to know so well, I could almost give it a pet name.

If I trace its path backward, it always seems to end in revenge. Time thankfully offers the gift of forgetfulness.

Even the obsolete hours, the ones that felt unbearably futile, eventually became nourishment of some sort. But even so, there's still no real sense of "It's done.

I'm...