To raise the veil. To see what you're saying goodbye to.

Like a child, the earth's going to sleep, or so the story goes. But I'm not tired, it says. And the mother says, You may not be tired but I'm tired

We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.

I had nothing and I was still changed. Like a costume, my numbness was taken away. Then hunger was added.

Desire, loneliness, wind in the flowering almond— surely these are the great, the inexhaustible subjects to which my predecessors apprenticed themselves. I hear them echo in my own heart, disguised as convention.

From the beginning of time, in childhood, I thought that pain meant I was not loved. It meant I loved.

So you couldn't protect yourself? The absolute erodes; the boundary, the wall around the self erodes. If I was waiting I had been invaded by time. But do you think you're free? I think I recognize the patterns of my nature. Bud do you think you're free? I had nothing and I was still changed. Like a costume, my numbness was taken away. Then hunger was added.