“All is riddle, and the key to a riddle is another riddle. There are as many pillows of illusion as flakes in a snowstorm. We wake from one dream into another dream. The toys, to be sure, are various, and are graduated in refinement to the quality of the dupe. The intellectual man requires a fine bait; the sots are easily amused. But everybody is drugged with his own frenzy, and the pageant marches at all hours, with music and banner and badge.”
R.W. Emerson
It’s around midnight. I’m semi-reclined on the couch in front of the fire wrapped in a wool blanket drinking wine with my feet tucked under the dog while wondering if my thoughts are clear and if I’m getting them down on the page correctly which, judging from this dopey paragraph, I’m not.
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