You live,
have sex
and die.
It's not much more. I was thinking about the father of my grandmother. And while I don't know anything about him, besides that he was a rich and successful construction entrepreneur. It still holds and I'm the living evidence. Maybe not of him, then of someone else.
I have made nothing especially of it. I'm no more than the dung beetle who just knows how to survive and keeps on stubbornly to roll his ball of dung. The world can disappear, the sand corns can roll away and cause a lawine, still there is no time to loose, just keep on rolling. It's hard to make any sense of it, what you will achieve with this or that action, what it will lead up to.
Enough I go to sleep. I hear Elizabeth already gently schnorring.
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