"Perhaps we, I mean the Earth, Cassiopeia, Alpha Tauri, that shooting star, all the other bodies and stars you see and do not see, all of us, zodiacs and natures, are merely billions of calculations in the kidney of a corpulent animal, its endless colic, the stony quagmires of its difficult, vast excretory system; and we float like that, in the ether and piss that clogs it through all the passages and makes it gloriously howl in pain in the silence of eternal spaces. This is what they call the harmony of the spheres. But as for moving a piece, He, the Were-God, wouldn’t know which fish to catch. He is just a beast that wants to rid himself of us, kicking and writhing without purpose. A remedy is needed, an upheaval or a belch, at the hands of another, an Ur-Gott, an archiatrist older and vaster than him, who can reduce us to a pulp of dust and free him, finally. But your death takes place outside of such a design, even if a design exists that concerns it..." (G. Bufalino, Diceria dell'untore)