Yet we move on, over the dead corpses. None to stop our endless march and march we must to the next second, the next minute, hour, day, week, month, year, century and millennia and onward and onward. A meaningless march we continue in hopes of answers that may not exist. Oh, our so vain existence . Oh, our woes and sorrows but nobody to see and feel. No cosmic entity to hold our hand and tell us of how we will be okay. The dreaded question of why we are and why we are here. The first and the last question.