The tea cup paused at the edges of his fingers, made up its mind, went ahead and made its descent to the tile below. Within him, an artery stretched itself full, seared a line which cleaved itself open and then exploded enveloping him in a terrific ache. But there should also have been relief. He would finally be part of that wisdom which he had pursued with such desperation and which, it had seemed, was always eluding him by a finger's breadth. He had understood it alright, at times with the clarity that only comes with great suffering and he had suffered much. It was so easy to spell it out: the only truth is the truth of nothing. And yet, he wanted more than a line. He wanted to experience this truth and not in patches but in its entirety. He wanted to know if, as he had surmised, whether in knowing it, he could in some manner overcome it. Herein also was why he knew he was certain to fail. Because how do you learn nothing. He could only do that by unlearning everything and this he had no courage for. And now, with the ebb and flow of a tea spill beside him, he was at long last in this wisdom, part of that omnipresent nothingness. But it was a futile going. Because he was dead, wasn't he?