Unoriginality

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

What does it profit a man, all his labour under the sun?
One generation passes, another generation comes, but the universe abides forever.
The sun rises, the sun sets, and rushes to the place from whence it came.
The wind blows south, then turns about to the north, whirling continually, returning in it’s circuits.
All rivers run to the sea, yet the sea is not full. Into the place from whence rivers come, so they return again.
All things are full of toil, man cannot utter it. The eye is not satisfied with seeing, the ear not filled by hearing.
The thing that has been is that which shall be, and that which is done is that which shall be done, and there is no new thing under the sun.
Is there anything of which it may be said “see, this is new”? It has already been of old, in the time that came before us.
There is no memory of former things, nor shall there be memory of that which is to come in those who come after.

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