Nothing is known for certain, Isarda. All knowledge is illusion-purpose is a meaningless word, a mere sound, a reassuring fragment of melody in a cacophony of clashing chords. All is flux-matter is like these jewels. (She throws a handful of gleaming gems upon the golden surface; they scatter. When the last jewel has ceased to move, she looks up at him.) Sometimes they fall into a rough pattern, usually they do not. So as this moment, a pattern has been formed-you and I stand here speaking. But at any moment that which constitutes our beings may be scattered again. (Michael Moorcock)

Nothing is known for certain, Isarda. All knowledge is illusion-purpose is a meaningless word, a mere sound, a reassuring fragment of melody in a cacophony of clashing chords. All is flux-matter is like these jewels. (She throws a handful of gleaming gems upon the golden surface; they scatter. When the last jewel has ceased to move, she looks up at him.) Sometimes they fall into a rough pattern, usually they do not. So as this moment, a pattern has been formed-you and I stand here speaking. But at any moment that which constitutes our beings may be scattered again.

Michael Moorcock

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certain clashing fall fragment gleaming golden handful jewel known knowledge last melody mere moment move nothing sound speaking stand surface word looks reassuring

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