His words rolled, bolts of lightning etched in years that were boulders and now are mist.
Life never answers.
That which we call life hears itself within us, speaks with our tongues, and through us, knows itself. As we portray it, we become its mirror, we invent it. It is a creature of reflections we create by thinking, and it hurls into fictitious abysses. It is always on the other side and is always other, has a thousand bodies and none, never moves and never stops, it is born to die, and is born at death. Don't ask life, for it doesn't even know what life is.