Sisyphean, the waves assail the cliffs
Singularly enacting the only virtue found within their vocabulary
Countless generations dash themselves against ancient magma
Its genius, having once reshaped the very boundaries of thought
Now lying cool and immutable

Ceaselessly, the waves work to uncover lost meaning underneath
Forgotten in detail but remembered as a long-lost friend
That which once provided ontology, cosmology, faith
Now lost to the violent eruption of passion
The work of a moment, long gone, soon to come

Striving, the waves define themselves against the rocks
Wasting themselves trying to get beyond what can be said, thought, or felt
Yet slowly having an effect all the same, uncovering lost meaning, newly understood
Thus occupied, they fail to notice the wind or the moon
Blind even to the sun, they crash, crash, crash, crash

We---who no longer discern the implications of ideas; who, blind to where they pop and crack and come apart at aching joints, clothe ourselves in profundities and casuistries alike. Who, learning too much, find ourselves able to both experience art and engineer its likeness, yet are unable to create. Who have no time for living, having invented leisure solely to distract us from work, having invented first and foremost books. We---the conjurers of worlds, masters of the if and for and while, of more than just lexically possible worlds. Who defile our predecessors, alternately convoluting profundity into profanity or analyzing it into vapidity. We---who write to mystify---have fooled, foremost, ourselves.

The essential quality of the genuinely postmodern man can now only be one thing: Earnestness. (One must only look to literature to see that this is true!) Those whose minds remain mired in scorn and irony have not truly grasped the blood and aphorisms that demarcate 20th century thought---one must do more than quote the conclusions of such men to understand the meaning pointed to by such a cannon. A meaning beyond conception, yet fully constructed by modern man. Thus is the conundrum laughed at (meanly) by those who have not yet transcended their own cleverness. Yet they must learn to do so before they can truly enter the 21st century, and join what hitherto remains a select few.

"Oh, that I had learned to fail sooner! Indeed, tomorrow I must pursue something I am bound to fail. Only one who has learned to play the cuckold can be free from derision—for how can one hold in contempt the man who has already disparaged his own worth?"

The wrong lessons are always learned a day too late.