No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance,

Because that was how it happened: one moment you were there, laughing, talking, breathing, and the next you were gone. Forever. And there wasn’t even a shape left in the world where you’d been, neither the trace of a smile nor the whisper of a word. Just nothing.

Perhaps there had never been anything at all to see.

But if nothing does as well as something about which nothing can be said, it vanishes.

There is no evidence of the soul except in its sudden absence. A nothingness enters, taking place where something was before.

We disappear as stars do, soundless, without a trace.

This November there seems to be nothing to say.

A turbulent emptiness seized the people as they moved into a post-Christian, post-Enlightenment era. No one any longer knew the direction of the river of life. No one had anything to say.

All the images and impressions and countries and continents he'd vised had been erased. What you don't remember never happened.

I have spoken softly, gone my ways softly, all my days, as behoves one who has nothing to say, nowhere to go, and so nothing to gain by being seen or heard.

Where history means nothing. Lessons are forgotten. Memories – of humanity, of all that is humane – are lost.

There is no evidence of the soul except in its sudden absence. A nothingness enters, taking the place where something was before. A night without stars falls and for a moment covers everything in the room.

There is no evidence of the soul except in tis sudden absence. A nothingness enters, taking the place where something was before. A night without stars falls and for a moment covers everything in the room.

For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.