Tis pleasant to stand on shore and watch others labouring in a stormy sea.
Nothing from nothing ever yet was born.
From the heart of this fountain of delights wells up some bitter taste to choke them even amid the flowers.
We, peopling the void air, make gods to whom we impute the ills we ought to bear.
How is it that the sky feeds the stars?
The sum of all sums is eternity.