Our days are but as grass, we flourish like a flower in the field.
Again, such words are the space or soil in which I search myself for meaning. They don’t give me words or thoughts. I can’t read off other words, or my own words, from these. My meaning is not a deduction, inference or historical-critical exegesis. These words are the ground of my subjectivity; the flowering comes as a surprise and as something completely different and uncontrolled by me, something blown or planted into this soil, which takes hold and flowers, before passing back into the soil again.
I don’t have any words to pray, or beliefs to confess or profess, and I don’t have any values, I’m not upstanding and I forget his commandments to do them.