Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith. Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.
Everything’s moving, falling, slipping, vanishing.... There is a vast upheaval of matter.
Day, a new day will swirl us around in a blizzard,
Only the present is life.
The past is there, in the distance,
Don't hold on to him.
Memories are sinking
Like a noose around the neck.
And late at night you won't be able to sleep,
Tormented by one thought:
"What was done? Proc? Tinsel?
Where can I find the answer?