Psalm 6.

The person is made of memories,

its matter woven from memories,

each memory of the one thing,

of one form and its fortunes,

of a name and its reputation,

of a body and its adventures,

its failures and victories,

its pains and pleasures.

Such a one is an accident,

the product of chance and change.

The sum of its own recollections,

it is trapped in history,

seeing what comes fresh before the eyes

through the fog of all that has befallen it.

Such a one does not see the world

but sees a world of its own concerns.

Such a one is a phantom,

so much vapour, smoke.