"...I still don't know if this was some cosmic accident, or if there is something more I'm meant to do."

"Your words make me wish I could offer you some reassurance on the matter," the Fool says, his smile twisting wryly. "Where I am from, there was a time when I might have been able to glean your destiny--" or his fate, "--through my dreams. But.." His words taper off, and he looks away. "I'm like you in many ways, it seems. I, too, am supposed to be dead."

For a few moments he is quiet. Then, with a short, bitter little laugh, he asks, "What good is a prophet who can no longer prophesy?" It's a rhetorical, self-critical question. Doubtless, he doesn't expect an answer to it.