I doubt, so I exist... From truths tortured, in the bosom of simple desire, our life is born with finesse, and then it leaves with suffering. And perhaps death is a strange dream, after the complex life puzzle ends, most blessedly written heaven and hell, with words of love or a knot. And still we have not found the key... We still live in coincidences. In coincidences, our destinies fly, and it is no accident that we cry and laugh, when it hurts us in a human way. The immortality of the spirit frightens us. But since you and I are mortal, in our minutes, we are executioners, of their sufferings---blind, after every accusation---sinless, after every repentance---saints, after every death---even more human. Or maybe life is love, Or maybe it's just a test. And after life there is life again... And we want. And we are looking for. But we don't know.