It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe.
What does it mean to be alive? And what is the point of any of it? What do we choose to anchor ourselves ourselves to or should that be: to whom do we choose to anchor ourselves? How do we make the most of life knowing that life ends soon enough for everyone? And that, while we are on Earth, we are constantly judged. Perhaps not on ways that are fair but, still, often in ways that, perhaps because of their unfairness, provide us an escape from the fetters of social etiquette as a man who is tried for senseless murder he has committed finds. Except, that that's not the crime he's really tried for or sentenced to death for: his 'crime' is not having displayed the performative grief expected of a 'good son' upon the death of his mother.