"Nothing of nothing remains. And we are nothing. In the sun and air we put off briefly The unbreathable darkness of damp earth Whose weight we'll have to bear— Postponed corpses that procreate. Laws passed, statues seen, odes finished— They all have their grave. If we, heaps of flesh Quickened by the blood of an inner sun, Must one day set, why not they? We're tales telling tales, nothing..."