reasoning on why, instead of asking when where or how. The riddle of life.

...one day the "why" arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement.

-Albert Camus

Vanity of vanities.  All is vanity.

-King Solomon

...you will have to live once more innumerable times more; and the will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence...

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks during his descent.  The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory.  There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.

The struggle towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart.  One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

-Albert Camus

I reasoned such, or remembered such, standing in the porch, with the temperature down from passing rains, and a kind of percussion of distant thunder sounding like a Norse lullaby to my idle ears.  The magic of the moment is so thin, so vague, ponderous, but unable, like a gallon of water, to be grasped on its own.

Perhaps to be enjoyed or experienced, and not quantified the insipid way we often practice.

The contrasting meanings of life, and how the literati could boil down the details of so many collected moments within one skin, reduce that to a singular trait or adage; traits they talk as exact single labels of something.  It is not unlike graffiti artists tagging a passing train car, or something, something so inadequate, but at some moments apt enough.