"Death dominates us, but it dominates us by its impossibility […] we are absent from our death. If night suddenly is cast in doubt, then there is no longer either day or night, there is only a vague, twilight glow, which is sometimes a memory of day, sometimes a longing for night, end of the sun and sun of the end. Existence is interminable, it is nothing but an indeterminacy; we do not know if we are excluded from it (which is why we search vainly in it for something solid to hold onto) or whether we are forever imprisoned in it (and so we turn desperately towards the outside). This existence is an exile in the fullest sense: we are not there, we are elsewhere, and we will never stop being there."
— Maurice Blanchot