The blind have no notion of time. The things of time are hidden from them too.

The essential is to go on squirming forever at the end of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven asporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits.

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.

For to know nothing is nothing, not to want to know anything likewise, but to be beyond knowing anything, to know you are beyond knowing anything, that is when peace enters in, to the soul of the incurious seeker.

I am still alive then. That may come in useful.

What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.