Houses Made Of Wood

we think we are superior than animals, we are animals ourselves. our houses made of wood and rocks. that’s all we are, a speck, waiting to go back to dust. that’s all we are. why experience this life at all? what gives. it’s sad to think I used to believe in magic, magic don’t exist. happiness don’t exist. life is just some big joke, one big mistake. my thoughts are the cause of my very depression and anxiety. I envy the dead.