ABSTRACT
Olav, a friend of mine, worked for the post oce in order to pay his bills while he was studying. His job was to turn mailbags inside out in order to see if any letters were stuck in the bags. One day, while turning yet another mailbag inside out, the utter futility of human existence struck him, and he started sobbing like a child, although, being a good Protestant, he kept on doing his job as the tears ran down his cheeks. The problem was that he saw no end to what he was doing; there would always be another mailbag coming in. There seemed to be no progress, just the eternal recurrence of the same.
