Stood in firelight, sweltering. Ketchup stain on chest like map of violent new continent. Felt cleansed. Felt dark planet turn under my feet and knew what fans know that makes them scream like idiots in night. Looked at sky through smoke heavy with barbecue fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who beats the Phillies. Not fate that bludgeons them or destiny that keeps them to five hits or less. It’s us. Only us. Park stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world. Was Phanatic. (Photo by Joe Robbins/Getty Images)
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