Some live only in the frame of the imagination, like the little white clouds, in the imagination of the dark sky.
Think of a person who has all of you settled in his being; one sentence, one feeling, one memory is enough to spread you all over his being.
Then you can no longer escape from the framework and prison of human existence, because you flow like blood in their being, like water in the petals of flowers, like air across the sky.
And you do not know how much more terrible the prison of human existence is than the prison of imagination.
Take the sediments of your being seriously; being indifferent to the memories that have settled in your being will one day lead you into captivity forever.