We can only function when we fall apart.
Quiet moments burn us as drops of molten silver
burn a demon's flesh. Each pause is unbearable,
like a pause in the middle of bustling creation.
As the owner of a precious thin-walled vase,
maddened by thoughts of what may happen to it,
how it may break one day or how it may be stolen,
hurls it on the floor himself, to find relief,
we seem keen on destroying what little we have
precisely because it is unbearably valuable.
We also feel embarrassed by a prospect of harmony
which we see as a room, too clean to live in,
too suspiciously hushed and white-curtained,
like a madhouse or a place where someone has died.