John Cage

As I sit in my room listening to static noise I become aware of the horrible futility of existence. It doesn't matter what I do. What I go in for, went in for, set out to do, will be forgotten and swept away like sand in the wind. My thoughts are flecks of dust on a clean mirror. They don't exist. Where should I put these thoughts, this noise? This image? I cannot touch it. Like light it changes upon reaching my eye.