We tend toward observations on futility only when futility sticks its cock into our eyes, Rémi says, when it bends us, contorts us, fucks us into the crippling depression that is consciousness. The state is temporary, he says, so we come to our conclusions, then gleefully abandon them behind when contentment reappears and the disillusionment is discovered to be an illusion itself.

Not me, Rémi says. Not me.