It is senseless to claim that things exist in their instancing only. The template for the world and all in it was drawn long ago. Yet the story of the world, which is all the world we know, does not exist outside of the intruments of its execution. Nor can those intruments exist outside of their own history. And so on. This life of yours is not a picture of the world. It is the world itself and it is composed not of bone or dreams or time but of worship. Nothing else can contain it. Nothing else be by it contained.
–Cormac McCarthy, Cities of the Plain