I have decided to pass up your offer to be President when I grow up. I want to be a philosopher and ponder the meaning of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Maybe you could help.
“The very desire for guarantees that our values are eternal and secure in some objective heaven is perhaps only a craving for the certainties of childhood or the absolute values of our primitive past.”
Since the first post appeared on this site, 2570 days ago, every day is today. Each morning we wake up aware of time as it was before the greatest illusion of all was invented.
“They took away time, and they gave us the clock.”
One sun-dappled Sunday in Post-Impressionist Paris, the first Neo-Impressionist artist―working under a parasol made of points of light, among several shading an idle parade of blasé bourgeoisie, passing a Sabbath of pleasureless leisure on an island in a Seine made of points of light―invents Pointillism.
“Some say they see poetry in my paintings; I see only science.”
In a yellow wood, a pencil pusher, horning in to push pencils, comes to a fork in the road, where a Pulitzer poet is standing on the horns of a dilemma.
It’s taking a bigger bite out of this summer’s tourism than great white sharks at water parks. It is culling group packages down to singles tours. It is making this summer’s vacation a holiday for hermits.
“The hermit is he who needs a friend, and in the absence of a community has befriended himself.”
GODSLAUGH.ME 