On the church vaulting above was the clock-face of eternity, void of number and serving as its own hand, only one black finger was pointing and the dead wanted to tell the time by it.

How alone everyone is in the vast tomb of the universe!

Is man merely a mistake of God's? Or God merely a mistake of man?

All men are Prophets or else God does not exist.

And if I remain in the dark about our purpose here, and meaning of eternity, I have nonetheless arrived at an understanding of a few more modest truths: Most of us fear death. Most of us yearn to comprehend how we go here, and why – which is to say, most of us ache to know the love of our creator. And we will no doubt feel that ache, most of us, for as long as we happen to be alive.

Every man regards his own life as the New Year's Eve of time.