Whoever has known the collective experience of death during long years of suffering, knows irrationality in its purest form. The only goal to strive for is existence itself. Day and night one sees oneself whirling about in a play put on by madmen. The shadows of a city in shambles perform a dance of death. One's only memories are of a world that is no longer there.
Any statement is ambiguous and disconcerting because all discourse is condemned to triviality.
Hope disappears because time itself is empty, though occasionally nostalgia comes to supply the void. All boundaries between external evil and internal trials disappear. An aching body is the only impression left upon the soul. A bruised body understands the futility of things, knows the absence of God. Sin surfaces to form a hallucinatory presence.