When one realises that one’s life – the sorrows, the pleasures, the joys, the miseries, the conflicts, the ambitions, the competition, the search for power and position – which are the fragments of our existence – when one totally realises one cannot do anything about it, then time as yesterday, with all its memories, experiences and knowledge comes to an end. Comes totally to an end. Out of that ending of time, there is beauty. Beauty is not what you see – not the mountain, not the painting, not the book; those are fragmentations. Beauty is born unseekingly, without premeditation, and that beauty comes only when there is no time, or when time is not broken up. Out of that beauty comes silence.