If there is a cyclical essence to the world—to history—it would be the height of arrogance to assume that we have seen and recorded even a fraction of a single cycle. We search in vain for a pattern, yet, for all this, the foundations of human meaning might only be the idiosyncrasies of a single iteration.

We had thought that we were taming the river, mastering the rapids—making progress. The stern confidence we affected as the water tore against our face, our firm yet exhilaratingly tenuous grip on the oars—these were taken as proof of our merit: “We are up to this task! We deserve this task!”

     But this day is different; we see the waters for what they are: not a river, no, but an ocean! Our battle with the rapids was just the battery of the tides—our “progress” has been a sham; and the cool, serious look which once posited its possessor as worthy of this illusory challenge has now turned against itself and become our humiliation.

Phenomenology of Truth—

     We sit together and hear the word “truth.” We each turn inward and clutch tightly the most certain parts of our realities. You hold them, run your fingers over them; you let them remind you of all the previous moments in which you've found yourself in this same position—and all I see is the smirk spreading across your face.

The Father proclaimed: "Any man who presumes to speak for the law shall be killed!"

The Son, approaching manhood, realized that this maxim was not to be found anywhere in the law. He looked up at his father as he moved toward him and, overwhelmed with loyalty, struck him dead.

As he rose from his deed, the Son looked down over the world and knew exactly who he was.

Ah, World!—you reliable old friend: I know you well.

     It took a long time for things to develop this far between us. When we used to speak in the beginning, all of your words were foreign, abrasive—alien, alienating.

     But now—now things are otherwise: our friendship has blossomed. Now I can barely recall why it wounded my pride so to see my face reflected in your eyes, my eyes in yours. Did it, even?—No, it was nothing more than the inevitable pain of intimacy, the caustic sting of the skin-to-skin.

     Here, though, we have reached our limit. Our relationship has been perfected—and I suppose it never could have been the perfect relationship. World!—you are a woman: Sister, Mother, secret lover, but never—a brother!