It doesn't make sense, that is, the sense of it doesn't make any thing only eats itself up, digests and repeats. Sense making won't give up, it twists itself into pretzels trying to take revenge, on what? On the simplicity that blithely dispenses with it. It claims to get the joke, insists it gets the joke, laughs loudly through gritted teeth and tries again, repeating the gestures from its glory days, playing hard to get, a third act or a forth. You can't get there from the sincere declarative tone with nothing to hide - or should that be nothing to Hyde? - but you keep wanting to make a show of it for the sake of good company. Actually, though, every body is asking the same question, you too, but mostly without knowing it. The whole thing is a question, as least that's one way you might frame it, it's what you actually do it for when you think your goals are more selfish, or when desire has run out on you. If you could add enough extra dimensions then it would make sense, or not exactly sense as you know it, but sense there; that's always the way, the unified field with no need for an enjoyer, smooth and unseeing, while here in the world you've chosen it's a hopeless and wonderfully knotted up tangle of apparently broken ends. Tone is everything, whether there's a crack or a firework, just as long as you don't make sense.