You have 100 words left. What do you say?
I can’t waste a word. But what words would be a waste? What could possibly be so important to say? I could speak on society, or the universe I have perceived—but what would that accomplish, and who would even listen? This hundred is no different from the hundreds before—a parody of self-importance, a delusional whisper into the crashing waves of experience. I love my mother. Everyone should call theirs more. Smile—dance on the street, buy yourself a cup of coffee, stop to watch the birds when they land. Yell your finite words as loud as you can.