This is how we live in death. And our eyes shall see only faces and masks, faces and masks. We shall be unable to see anything but faces and shadows of faces, masks and shadows of masks. We shall be a shadow cast by a blade of grass, moving opposite the sun, always moving opposite the light: and at night we shall spread ourselves out universally over the whole of the earth, over the whole of the sea. Where is my good milk and my good bread and my good tea? I am drained of everything, wiped clean. How shall I walk about, how shall I carry myself and how shall my speech be, now that I have seen the mysteries laid open, no longer concealed behind the mantle of daily living and working and studying? How can I hold onto the mysteries, lock them within me so that they won’t dissipate again and again with the flow of time?