I have searched for meaning everywhere, in the cemeteries and parlours, in mirrors and monasteries, in palaces and cowsheds.
I think i have seen beauty in glimpses. I am not an unhappy man except momentarilly, but it is this momentariness that disturbs me.
It implies a sickly rollercoaster alternation between highs and lows, sickening obstacles, steadily palling contrasts between patches of colour boring through over-familiarity, like mildew or decay. All the clever philosophés tell us that the purpose is in the purposelesness. Always seemed to me too adroit, a circular argument of sorts.