The minute you begin to have doubts, the floor under your feet starts to shake.
The thorn of death falls from heaven, and its myriad forms leave us no room to move.
Time cannot be spurred on like a horse.
Do you shovel to survive, or survive to shovel?
Far happier he, who, young and full of pride And radiant with the glory of the sun, Leaves earth before his singing time is done. All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide, His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.
Work seemed something fundamental for man, something which enabled him to endure the aimless flight of time.