No matter who we are--rich or poor, righteous or wicked, wise or foolish (and all of us are all of these, I think)--we shall all meet the same fate. All human enterprise and undertakings are like herding the wind, and, in the end, it all passes as mere breath. But this merest of breaths exhaled, that ephemeral dewy moment that soon turns to vapor, how much it contains!
And the riddle is this: how can all that we know be so full and yet so empty? And how can this elegant dance we do on the edge be all that there is? And why do we think we need anything more?
