All is vanity, and chasing after wind. All these words have been written before, I tell you nothing new under the sun, for what is written shall ever be written again, as many cycles as there are years, as we live under the turning of the Wheel. What hope have we to mean something before, like the dust we are, we are scattered into the winds, never to be gathered together again? Or shall we believe that there is more? Can we conceivably have the notion that the God of small things listens to the cricket’s chirp, to know with every fluctuation of a temperature’s degree, what transpires in the smallest capillaries of our bloodstream? To Him it is not vanity. To Him, who knows from where the wind comes, and to where it goes, life is not a poor player. We will perhaps arrange these written words anew, and find meaning even in the dregs of our language. In the attempt, that denies the entropy another minute of any heart’s erosion.
