The corpse of my life, cradled by mother and father, nourished by their distance. Back within the cosmic egg, its fragile shell rebuilt, a piece is missing. And so I see through it. That is why you gave me the will of the Drunkard and the legs of the Lame. To reach you. To make it easy for me.
You labored hard without working. You caught the great river in your hair to save us all. Then mother stepped on your chest. Without her, you are but a corpse, and therefore, all of us are. I sing your songs, as I have none of my own.
Why would you let me play your lute at the feast, and give me only five fingers? All further strings scare me beyond belief and I dare not approach them. Their ringing is unfamiliar to me. Their music terrifies me. It must be that you are hiding there.
Your seas before me, I see the rise and fall of every wave. My vision is complete, supremely radiant. My voice towers. Ten million truths condensed within a single phrase. Ah, I am still capable of seeing without staring. To know without being told to. In an instant, completeness is my nature.
But the moment does not last. The terrible insistence that a great Something has been left unfinished. What? What else is there?