found in translation

the profound melancholy of the last days. though it is inappropriate i recalled beckett. the last couple of days before you reach the final state of white light and clear vision. the day you stand on the beach next to the eye of the land, solitary, in the winter landscape, all those amazing black things like birds and boughs. the day your memories are no longer proof of your subjectivity but a part of the constant flow of things; something like a stone slowly diminished by the sand, little by little. then one day, finally, you are the sand as well.

::: to feel the spirit of suffering and survival in our times will enter the afterlife of endless reimaginings :::