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Only the tiniest of things matter to me anymore. Lots of my time spent feels fruitless outside of them. The big things take care of themselves, more often they don't and we give things the Fremen ending, chopping at a thing unfinished and saying "It is complete because it stops here." Is there seed in the bird feeder? Did my friend the juvenile woodpecker stop by this morning? Can I have dinner ready when my significant other gets home late? Can I deliver another bag of flour and some starter to a friend safely? Am I able to lift another piece of salvaged wood today? Do my tools stay firm in my grasp or slip and wobble? Am I finished? Not yet apparently.