The 17th of November. A dreary day, filled with empty shadows. The clouds are shapeless; they hang against the sky like burlap. Evening comes early, numb, in a fogless haze. The world is quiet; only the sound of people is loud. You go out walking, you ask yourself questions -- you ask whether there will ever be another day like this one -- one just as vague and dim -- with the same beginnings, those born today, the deaths, the innumerable acts of lustful procreation, the reckonings of fate, the coincidences, the recently launched endeavors and decisions. You get no answer. You cannot provide an answer.
[From <i>Jeden ereilt es</i> (It Catches Up With Everyone), translated from the German by Adam Siegel.]
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