At the other end of the world it is as bright as day. When you just switch off the light so that your body may recover, from joy&sorrow&the work of a day, when at your place the lamps just go out, they go on again there. Then the sun shines again there, then the wheel of life has already turned into a new forenoon there. & your clammy little fear that all would sink in the endless sleep, that forever would last a very very long night, is mocked at the same moment already by the very first bird choir at the other end of the world.
Life in the place of desire is deceivingly similar to all you know and you can imagine. Desire disenchanted, smashed the dream, no comfort of a better world. They all run there, too, after the things that ought to make them complete, myriads of half-empty glasses, poor sods all over the world...
The world is disenchanted, the glass is half-empty, and still the enigma of time remains. How does it work that in one, two, thousand places in the world the light goes on exactly NOW? How much of the same is there between You and me, between this & that, between here & there, where never anybody looks? Who boozes NOW & who rejoices NOW & who sleeps with whom NOW & when not & who has the last laugh? & if only it gets morning again anywhere else at exactly the same time, that is NOW NOW NOW why then this much too serious struggle?
Only so many hours in the plane, and you are already at the end of the world! There, all is different and all is the same. All can be different, all is the same. The flush works the other way round. All is the same. The cars run the other way round. All is the same. & as everywhere else in the world, too, the humans hang helpless as they are & yet also glad at times down from earth into the sky.