Spent some time on the shooting range today. My arms are killing me. The target looked like a whole platoon had aimed suppressing fire at it. I only stopped because suddenly my trigger finger was too weak to keep firing.
I was thinking, the whole time. About... purpose.
And I realised, I don't have one. Not a real one. Not one that has any substance beyond making money. I'm drifting, letting things happen to me rather than causing them to happen.
...I kind of enjoy it.