Born Sleepy Mug

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big sofa, choose alarm clocks, mobile phones, and motivational posters telling you to hustle harder. Choose spinning classes. Choose meal prep. Choose a pension. Choose a starter home. Choose standing desks and oat milk and the crushing, relentless, exhausting business of being a functioning person.

Or choose what he chose.

The branch. The seventeen-hour nap. Moving so slowly that moss grows on you and you genuinely cannot find it in yourself to care. The total, unhurried, magnificent refusal to participate. Not laziness. Philosophy.

He didn't choose life. He chose something much better.

And the reasons?
There are no reasons
Who needs reasons when you've got sleep?