Infinity. That's what existence is. Myriad forms without end. Inevitably ever-changing. This is why the self is sometimes said to be unreal. It is the infinitesimal point at the center of everything which witnesses all come and go. The lens of my vision may be too wide. I struggle to build anything for I see it in flames before I finish. Even this text feels fruitless as I write it; a withering tree in winter, soon to decay into soil, soon to be swallowed by suns. All amassed collapses. I watch the beauty in awe, destroyer of worlds at work, builder of lives anew. Forgetful minds fail to ask why at first. But without a doubt when all their answers are shown to be shadows of truth, they will come questioning again.