But life was meant to be lived, as these people were doing. They were taking their share of life and giving something back. What was I in comparison? What did my soul ever do, apart from gnawing away at me like a woodworm? This gramophone, this wooden inn, this ice-covered lake, these snow-covered trees, and this jumbled crowd � they were all busy with the tasks that life had given them. There was meaning in everything they did, even if I could not see it at first glance. And I was but the wheel that had spun off its axle, still searching for reasons as I wobbled off into the void.
