Human life, by its very nature,
has to be dedicated to something,
an enterprise glorious or humble, a destiny illustrious or trivial.

…in these years we are witnessing the gigantic spectacle
of innumerable human lives wandering about
lost in their own labyrinths…

All imperatives, all commands, are in a state of suspension.
Given over to itself, every life has been left empty,
with nothing to do.

Life is lost at finding itself all alone.
Mere egoism is a labyrinth.

Really to live
is to be directed toward something, to progress toward a goal.
The goal is not my motion, not my life,
it is the something to which I put my life and which
consequently is outside it, beyond it.

-excerpt The Revolt of the Masses by José Ortega y Gasset p. 141-142

Lost In The Flood

By Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band

The ragamuffin gunner is returnin’ home like a hungry runaway
He walks through town all alone
“He must be from the fort,” he hears the high school girls say
This countryside’s burnin’ with wolfmen fairies dressed in drag for homicide
They hit and run, plead sanctuary, ‘neath the holy stone they hide
They’re breakin’ beams and crosses with a spastic’s reelin’ perfection
Nuns run bald through Vatican halls pregnant, pleadin’ immaculate conception
And everybody’s wrecked on Main Street from drinking unholy blood
Sticker smiles sweet as gunner breathes deep, his ankles caked in mud

And I said, “Hey, gunner man, that’s quicksand
That’s quicksand that ain’t mud”
Have you thrown your senses to the war
Or did you lose them in the flood?

That pure American brother, dull-eyed and empty-faced
Races Sundays in Jersey in a Chevy stock super eight
He rides her low on the hip, on the side he’s got Bound For Glory in red, white and blue flash paint
He leans on the hood telling racin’ stories, the kids call him Jimmy The Saint
Well that blaze and noise boy, he’s gunnin’ that bitch loaded to blastin’ point
He rides headfirst into a hurricane and disappears into a point
And there’s nothin’ left but some blood where the body fell
That is, nothin’ left that you could sell
Just junk all across the horizon, a real highwayman’s farewell

And I said, “Hey kid, you think that’s oil?
Man, that ain’t oil, that’s blood“
I wonder what he was thinking when he hit that storm
Or was he just lost in the flood?

Eighth Avenue sailors in satin shirts whisper in the air
Some storefront incarnation of Maria, she’s puttin’ on me the stare
And Bronx’s best apostle stands with his hand on his own hardware
Everything stops, you hear five quick shots, the cops come up for air
And now the whiz-bang gang from uptown, they’re shootin’ up the street
Whoa, that cat from the Bronx starts lettin’ loose, but he gets blown right off his feet
Oh, and some kid comes blastin’ round the corner, but a cop puts him right away
He lays on the street holding his leg screaming something in Spanish
Still breathing when I walked away

And somebody said, “Hey man, did you see that?
His body hit the street with such a beautiful thud”
I wonder what the dude was sayin’
Or was he just lost in the flood?
Well, hey man, did you see that?
Lord, those poor cats are sure messed up
I wonder what they were gettin’ into
Or were they all just lost in the flood?

Were they lost, oh, tell me, tell me, man
Were they lost?