I experience bouts of Melancholy, and recently I quipped, what is wit but the lowest form of punning. I am awake still, but there's no Fitzpatrickery whatsoever from this old compadre. So flame on!
I find that cautious observation can really lead occams razor to a central crux in the cult of Science. We come to the razor sharp edge, where hypothesis becomes conclusion, by way of one simple dialectical scalpel. Sheering away...
Why anything?
What could have created such a profane tragedy as the one with the Turks... Nobodies business but theirs! But which will triumph, the grief of the obscure, or the transparency of the apprehension of Will as such in-and-of-itself.
Bachus, along with Hercules where they sat to skyte,
once sang of a satyr so ugly he had never seen his own reflection without running in the opposite direction. Diatoma told him to look into his eyes,
and they were a never ending source of wonder to him...
Then she said,
Look at your horns,
and he died.
R.I.P.
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