icy day out, late awakening on a Sunday. clothing recovered from the floor, this is all not leading any place- time is running away, fleeing from the dreams that are not achieved, unachievable.
If all that is done is done to gain approbation, approval, if that is all that causes happiness then the bliss of solitude, the peace of isolation in beauty is a figment of imagination. If approval were the only measure of quality, then that would lead to a world of people constantly living in fear of chastisement, of disapproval, of nose-wrinklers, unable to provide originality, unable to celebrate originality in others, a constant bland selfishness. Not a thing would be worth doing anymore unless it gains praise, and yes, soon and quickly. Likers and haters, lickers and spitters would run the world.
Maybe they do.
Weak populists abound, those who tell the weak around them that they are not so weak, but belong to the elite. Tell the idiots what they want to hear and they will vote for you
and now awake, agape, now, easy, -easy on this Sunday morning.
The mess in the bedroom, the chaos on the desk.
More guns would not have helped the girl, the sixth victim today, a Kalamazoo. Madmen with murderous equipment.
The machine charged, the gas on, the drink in preparation. The son hugged, He is happy still at yesterday's success. A machine, an old silver apple, taken asunder completely, bit by bit, until the broken power socket could be replaced, then reassembled. And it worked. And the whole thing just for the sake of the achievement itself. And now the machine works, it is understood better, and the knowledge gained by dis assembly and reassembly has inspired confidence in his own abilities.
The coffee is drunk and the mathematics homework is written.
Units of area.
The measurement of space, the size of a carpet relative to the size of a living space.
The size of the bed relative to the room
It is a miserable day, and the scans of the French cave are waiting to be done.
What was not done yesterday can only be done today.
If all that is done is done to gain approbation, approval, if that is all that causes happiness then the bliss of solitude, the peace of isolation in beauty is a figment of imagination. If approval were the only measure of quality, then that would lead to a world of people constantly living in fear of chastisement, of disapproval, of nose-wrinklers, unable to provide originality, unable to celebrate originality in others, a constant bland selfishness. Not a thing would be worth doing anymore unless it gains praise, and yes, soon and quickly. Likers and haters, lickers and spitters would run the world.
Maybe they do.
Weak populists abound, those who tell the weak around them that they are not so weak, but belong to the elite. Tell the idiots what they want to hear and they will vote for you
and now awake, agape, now, easy, -easy on this Sunday morning.
The mess in the bedroom, the chaos on the desk.
More guns would not have helped the girl, the sixth victim today, a Kalamazoo. Madmen with murderous equipment.
The machine charged, the gas on, the drink in preparation. The son hugged, He is happy still at yesterday's success. A machine, an old silver apple, taken asunder completely, bit by bit, until the broken power socket could be replaced, then reassembled. And it worked. And the whole thing just for the sake of the achievement itself. And now the machine works, it is understood better, and the knowledge gained by dis assembly and reassembly has inspired confidence in his own abilities.
The coffee is drunk and the mathematics homework is written.
Units of area.
The measurement of space, the size of a carpet relative to the size of a living space.
The size of the bed relative to the room
It is a miserable day, and the scans of the French cave are waiting to be done.
What was not done yesterday can only be done today.
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