“I have the true feeling of myself only when I am unbearably unhappy.” Kafka
“Water. Like a blanket. Dark. Intoxicating. Cold.” Shannon Celebi
“The great wheel of fate rolls on like a Juggernaut, and crushes us all in turn, some soon, some late – it does not matter when, in the end, it crushes us all.” H. Rider Haggard
“To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature.” Thomas Hardy
“Horses are mindful creatures. When we watch them closely, and we are not endowed with a tin ear, we can hear them thinking.” Erik Pevernagie
“He had a big head and a face so ugly it became almost fascinating.” Ayn Rand
“All there is to thinking,” he said, “is seeing something noticeable which makes you see something you weren’t noticing which makes you see something that isn’t even visible.” Norman Maclean
“Zen is the way of splitting the self again and again, until there is nothing left.” Frederick Lenz
“The spark of consciousness is reflected in the river, where a dance of infinite faces lined in profane lights.” Kristian Goldmund Aumann
“We cannot stay home all our lives, we must present ourselves to the world and we must look upon it as an adventure.” Beatrix Potter
I was reading an article on the CNBC website where Dr. Fauci said: “If the U.S. allowed the coronavirus to spread unchecked in an attempt to try to achieve so-called herd immunity, the death toll would be enormous.”
This didn’t sound particularly good to me and I wondered how other residents felt about this. I found a herd and asked ten locals for their opinions. The first eight thought it was a ridiculous idea.
The ninth had a terrible cough and the others kept their social distance. After a few minutes this one, possibly the leader of the pack stood and stared at me. Her neighbor kept hitting her in the face with her tail to help get the flies off.
After a brief staring contest (which I won) I asked: “Well what do you think?” She thought about the question for a second and was about to answer when she got hit in the face again. Then she said: “Just shoot me now.” So I did.
“All the months are crude experiments out of which the perfect September is made.” Virginia Woolf