I absolutely love this story, love even more that a man from the other side of the world, born centuries ago and died in the last century, wrote brilliantly a short story with a premise that I have for a much more inferior version of the same premise. I love when life and art proves that their are no original thoughts and we are all each other, just across different timelines, geolocations and in different skinsuits. How could one truly claim to value life if you can easily hand-wave one's existence as rubbish? Over productivity? Over class? Over human pettiness? Over ordinariness? The moment one decides that any one existence is worthless they have decided that life itself is worthless.