She believed in nothing, if it wasn't for her skepticism she would be an athiest. - Jean-Paul Sartre

Everything has been figured out, except how to live.

And there is something that clutches the heart: the melody is absolutely untouched by this tiny coughing of the needle on the record. It is so far — so far behind. I understand that too: the disc is scratched and is wearing out, perhaps the singer is dead; I’m going to leave, I’m going to take my train. But behind the existence which falls from one present to the other, without a past, without a future, behind these sounds which decompose from day to day, peel off and slip towards death, the melody stays the same, young and firm, like a pitiless witness.

You're lucky. I'm always conscious of myself — in my mind. Painfully conscious.