Our goings out and our comings in, our daily aspirations and our struggles to succeed, our friendships and our squabbles, our plotting and our machinations, our guilt and our self-justifications, our grovelling and our disappointments, our pleasures and our consolations—are mere pencil sketches—easily erased. Like the bones under our flesh, they comprise a certain unreality. And like all things hard and brittle, they break, are ground into fine dust, and swept into nothingness. But what about the essence of us, that delicate arm of smoke at dusk which encircles in muted shades of violet?
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