Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?
Pursued by our origins... we all are.
We define only out of despair, we must have a formula... to give a facade tot he void.
Old age, after all, is merely the punishment for having lived.
All the concessions we make to Eros are holes in our desire for the absolute.
The curtain of the universe is moth-eaten, and through its holes we see nothing now but mask and ghost.