That we forget our reason for being here does not mean we don’t have one.

From Alfred’s journal

Flew to the top of the maple this morning with something urgent in mind and arrived with nothing. Sat there a good while. A woman came out of the brown house with her keys in her hand, stopped halfway down the walk, looked at the keys, looked at the door, and went back in; a minute later she came out again with a casserole dish and drove off. I used to take these blanks as proof that most of what we do is drift, that the errand invents itself on the way. But she had the dish the whole time, somewhere, and that we forget our reason for being here does not mean we don't have one. I still never remembered mine. Switch says it was probably the suet, and he is usually wrong about me and right about suet.