There was a time when we were too bumptious to keep close with the God. We are attracted by the leaves of the tree of human culture, and can’t extricate ourselves and take a look at ourselves. All concepts are partial; all truth are momentary. The concepts make us separate, all judgments are predictable. We are always like the murmuring blind sailor who is wearing swimming glasses in front of truth. The more noble we are, the more corrupt we would be; The firmer we are, the more degenerate we would be. The so-called truth is always in the mist. The art is just a psychopath, as if real, as if fake. And it’s always there, undecidable, in and out of shadows, and needs time to be watched.

Beautiful things tend to be disordered but united. They are movement, and dissociation, as clear as mud. Camus said before “the world is not reasonable, but is not so unreasonable.” But the unreasonable things help us run away from orders, appearances, concepts and false impressions. If we turn around, we can see the dark clouds and hear thunders. Unreasonable is reasonable. Reasonable things can only go towards death.

Patience is a virtue. If life is beautiful, then the skull is as beautiful as it is. The owner of the corpse is definitely to come back with weird feelings.