Over after-dinner drinks at Klaudio’s, Miro Kopcalic kept repeating that life had no meaning. Or that there was no meaning to life. I kept nodding in agreement. Every now and then, however, I would gently suggest that only he could give meaning to his life. By and by, I let go of this simple if useless message. And it is utterly useless, indeed. Miro will have to come upon it himself.