I suppose it’s different for everyone. There’s no clearly defined point. We live, we suffer, we don’t suffer, we die. The points are subjective, random, and sporadic. A pet. A good book. A friend. Silence. Music. Sunsets. Sex. Abstinence. Drugs. Chocolate. Movies. The points come, they go. One day they’re clear as day, the next foggy and distant. They’re pointless, and meaningful. THE point is. . . yet to be understood. Whatever gets you through today’s tears and frustrations is the only point that we can hope for, ‘cuz searching for THE point is . . . murky.