This dirty little world full of confusion, and the blue rag, stretched overhead for a sky, is so low we could touch it with our hand.
Existence is a great pot, and the old Fate who stirs it round cares nothing what rises to the top and what goes down, and laughs when the bubbles burst.

And we do not care.

Let it boil about.

Why should we trouble ourselves?
Nevertheless the physical sensations are real.
Hunger hurts, and thirst, therefore we eat and drink: inaction pains us, therefore we work like galley-slaves.

No one demands it, but we set ourselves to build a great dam in red sand beyond the graves.