My existence is such that "I" do not really exist. At the end of understanding so much I understand that I know nothing. I suffer for being surrounded by intense suffering and yet I'm deeply suspicious if first of all there is indeed any consciousness except me. I strive to find the artist who might have fathered this great universal art but feel myself to be too feeble to accomplish this seemingly unattainable mission. Yet I have every respect for life, and it is this sheer respect that makes me live.
I have far more reasons to rather disbelieve that a man besides me suffers when he cries, yet I have far more sentiments, than those great reasons, to instead weep for his, far less likely, sufferings.