February 13, 2010


Filed under: General,Litlets,Prose,Writing — crcb @ 9:12 pm

When we understand that our sorrow is meaningless, it begins. There’s no virtue in victimhood (or else it would be triumph), no honesty in pain.

But then, nothing has meaning except as we give it meaning. Truth doesn’t live in nature, and honesty is an artifact.

He was very rational and extremely gullible, always a threatening combination. Convince a rationalist of the right premise, and he’ll follow you to the most absurd conclusion with absolute sincerity.

A man who works in Morpheus’s bank and embezzles the remnants of unrecalled dreams.

Phlogiman: noun; a stochastic compositional maneuver. The classical version is scrupulously performed (as one would enact the rituals in consulting an oracle) and slavishly followed; the romantic variety is recklessly executed and blithely trifled with.


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