Love, it’s such a night, laced with running water, irreparable, riddled with a million leaks. A night shaped like a shadow thrown by your absence. Every crack trickles, every overhang drips. The screech of nighthawks has been replaced by the splash of rain. The rain falls from the height of streetlights. Each drop contains its own shattering blue bulb.
The biggest threat to advanced economies is that debt will accumulate until the overhang weighs on growth.
Human identity is fundamentally an illusion; it’s an evolutionary overhang which lets us function as coherent self-aware animals. But, on a deep level, we have no real evidence that when we wake up we’re the same person who went to sleep.