One day I will die. My flesh will no longer recall memory, and my atoms will scatter. But as inconsequential as I am, or as this game is, or as is this the brief little event where I played half a game because my wife recognized it at Round 1 and I had to stop playing so we could move along and jeer at the awful music - as long as I live, and maybe in a cycle of reincarnation, and maybe in the Akashic Records somewhere, eternally exists my discomfort at the ugly visuals, the piercing trebly FM synth bell tones, and the awful control behind this miserable game. It is seared into my being, my gray matter forced to replay the minor cringing feeling through the rest of my body from the recesses of my memory, a reaction to becoming one with this disposable market share grab at Tetris. It tangentially influences my personality like a star billions of miles away. It is nothing to me, and everything.

I don't need to think about it ever again. Why must my brain remember this so vividly in response to seeing it on this website? What use does this do for my life, or anyone else's life, or the universe? At least it makes me think about this stuff, in the same way an interaction with someone at a Wendy's or a particularly loud fart might.

God is dead. Life is wonderful. Just don't play Columns.

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"like Tetris but a bit better" - Glenn Rubenstein on Columns, Wizard Magazine, 1993