Life belongs to others, it always has. I am here and I see it passing, life passes by other lives; life is a mirage that is real and unfathomable, and it flows through the lives of others, sating them with water, bloating them into double chins. The fact that my turn had come was an accident. Not an accident à la Porphyry—not this time—but logical in a neoscholastic sense. My life is an accident, predicable and transgressive. It gives no ontological meaning to my existence, but rather occupies it like a sentinel, where it grows strong and renders me absolute. Self-justified, life destroys me.
