The wind suffers from blowing; the fire suffers from burning; the sand suffers of sandiness, and I suffer from a living name. Where then, the end of this? Where the who and how and the end of this? …The end of all our whatness.
Birds suffer from flight; foxes suffer from shadows; whales suffer from water, but how can we stop. And will we stop, will we stop?
Suffering from our own essence-ness, we feel pity, not for ourselves, but for others, who are also suffering from their own essence-ness. …Yet we cannot apply this pity to ourselves, for that would be the end of things, would it not?
…End it. Take it all. Take us to the place of no winds. Take us to the place where we will be quiet, but maybe still there we will not even be satisfied. Or maybe just leave us here. Or take us to a place in-between.
…When and where and how will we be satisfied. Or is that not the goal? Maybe being satisfied is not the goal. Anyway pick us up, o lord, on your night-ship, and take us please somewhere, somewhere where maybe we will feel happy, if such a thing can exist, and is not merely a daytime waking-dream.