A bee settling on a flower has stung a child. And the child is afraid of bees and declares that bees exist to sting people. A poet admires the bee sucking from the chalice of a flower and says it exists to suck the fragrance of flowers.
There's no way out of this, it's stark: live or die. Every given moment a bubble that bursts. Step on, from one to the next, ever onwards, a rainbow of stepping stones, each bursting softly as your foot touches and passes on.
I took perhaps fifty steps down the sidewalk, and then I stopped.
I froze.
It was not guilt that froze me. I had taught myself never to feel guilt.
He had waited so long: his latter years had been no more than a stand-to. Oppressed with countless little daily cares, he had waited: of course he had run after girls all that time, he had travelled, and naturally he had had to earn his living.
To the as-yet unborn, to all innocent wisps of undifferentiated nothingness: Watch out for life.