I dont quite understand why, but the apostrophe button on my computer has stopped working. Regardless it got me started thinking about entropy (I know, right?). However, before I really sank into my existential crisis, I was whisked away by my Father to the City. Naturally, because the City is that way, I began to feel sick. For some time now Ive been extraordinarily focused on the idea of Story. There are upwards of 6 billion people on this planet, which means that there are upwards of 6 billion individual and totally subjective experiences on this planet, which means that there are upwards of 6 billion autobiographies. Can you even imagine? Add to that the immense amount of stories that already exist and that will exist and it just becomes terrifying. Or inspirational since it is quite a testament to human endurance and creativity. But walking the streets of the City where another hundred people just got off of the train and the plane and the bus, I quickly realized that it is a city of strangers. Whats worse, all of these people are dying. And each time somebody dies, so does a part of their story. When they cease to breathe, the only people who can continue their story are those who knew the person. But is it worth it? A continuation built on half remembered anecdotes, mumbled tales, mostly forgotten fragments of a person? Who is the continuation for? Is it for those left behind or those who have gone on? I can, intuitively, understand the concept of honoring somebodys memory, but it doesnt quite make sense. Why hold on at all?