In the end, a world that is not mine wins.

She repeats how good and right it is to end this now, and that if it continued, it would end quite disastrously for both of us.

What lying creatures, fable creatures we humans are. What dreams we dream. One could think that the dreams we weave, the colorful murals that run in the dark through the threads of nocturnality, our hopes and expectations coming into being, make up more of us, make up a greater part of our thinking and existence than actual material things and their necessities, such as eating, washing, talking, and so on. So not only is the world, the human world, thoroughly narrated, it is not only a fabric of contexts of meaning that change with the passage of time, no, it is also wholly and completely a specter world, a dream world, a world of our projections, our plays of color and imaginings. We ride through the world on unicorns. We are in ecstasy. We suffer in agony in all-cutting gloom. When are we really ‘here’, when do we see what really ‘is’? Or in other words: when are we merely ‘social’, that is ‘present', and ‘with the others’? Are we not rather dream beings ghosting around? As dream beings we instigate ourselves, participate in commonality, as if it were not (and generally nothing) real.

Not a day passes without the singing of time