“When looking out of the attic window that seemed like an embrasure behind which I found cover from the world, I oversaw meadows of golden grain elms bending in the wind like an ocean’s waves that roll over the water surface, unbreakably forward. Here I saw the Meuse flowing eternally below my window at the foot of the river bedding, crawling like a snake across a landscape, once the most Western border of the Holy Roman Empire.”

Thus starts The Birth of Ego.