This can lead to nothing good.
But it is so beautiful.
But it is so incredible.

Doom as it is, it sill ocupies my head so often, so much.

1914

There had been, and there still would be, years of every sort, but the year 1914 will always remain unique. So at least it seemed to those who lived trough it. To them it seemed that never would they be able to speak of all that they had seen then of the course of human destinies, however much, still concealed by time and events, might be said or written about it later. How could they explain and express those collective shudders which suddenly ran trough all men and which from living beings were transmitted to inert objects, to districts and to buildings? How could they describe that swirling current among men which passed from dumb animal fear to suicidal enthusiasm, from the lowest impulses of bloodlust and pillage to the greatest and most noble of sacrifices, wherein man for a moment touches the sphere of greater worlds with other laws? Never can that be told, for those who saw and live trough it have lost the gift of words and those who are dead can tell no tales. Those were things which are not told, but forgotten. For were they not forgotten , how could they ever be repeated?

Ivo Andrić. The bridge on the Drina (1945).

Phase Space

Phase A, in which I am happy and eager to live new stuff, to learn new stuff.
Phase B, in which I am fighting my demons and all I long for is death.

No one is to judge, they say, what a man is, what a man did.
No one is to judge, I hear, what a man dreams, what a man longs for.

Every human generation has its own illusion with regard to civilization; some believe that they are taking part in its upsurge, others that they are witnesses of its extinction. In fact, it always both flames up and smoulders and is extinguished, according to the places and the angle of view. This generation which was now discussing philosophy, social and political questions on the kapia under the stars, above the waters, was richer only in illusions; in every other way it was similar to any other. It had the feeling both of lighting the first fires of one new civilization and extinguishing the last flickers of another which was burning out. What could specially be said of them was that there had not been for a long time past a generation which with greater boldness had dreamed and spoken about life, enjoyment and freedom and which had received less of life, suffered worse, laboured more hardly and died more often than had this one. But in those summer days of 1913 all was still undetermined, unsure. Everything appeared as an exciting new game on that ancient bridge, which shone in the moonlight of those July nights, clean, young and unalterable, strong and lovely in its perfection, stronger than all that time might bring and men imagine or do.