Who says our mortality can be vindicated? Or needs to be? We didn’t build the stage, nor did we write the script or cast ourselves as players in it. The theists delude themselves that it implies a Dramaturge; the atheists know better.

Our knowledge of the world is imperfect, our understanding even less. It is as we find it. There is what is. The hunger for meaning is genetically bred into us, but in the end it is futile: there is no meaning. The Tao that can be spoken is not the true Tao.