I’m tormented by the idea that it’s all nothing.  I accept that things exist—coffee, Casablanca, you, your favorite songs—and I allow for their valuations, subjective as they may be, that things matter or they don’t, are wholly good or wholly bad or fall somewhere in between.  But what is the Holocaust to water or to Saturn’s rings, to the expanse of time and space, within which we may as well never have existed?  What is tomorrow’s ecstasy or horror to yesterday?  Moments come and go, things happen and stop happening, that’s all.  I spend half my time trying to turn this nothing into something, to capture and preserve it, to bring life to lifeless dust.  This is nothing, I keep saying, but here it is.   Look, it’s nothing, look.