Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing life is—that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself—that comes too late—a crop of unextinguishable regrets.
A dark, depressing outlook. How much of humanity has simply been a procession of events that never realizes a sense of purpose? How long, and for how many cultures, has purpose meant something? Or even the same thing?
