But amid all your philosophy, be still a [human]

A letter to no-one:

It's fun, isn't it? Just sitting around, thinking. You've probably perfected it, that elbow-on-knee contemplation, or maybe a Nietzschean scowl witha slowly expanding moustache. Perhaps you've already worked out what your universe is and what it is not, perhaps it includes certain groups and acts and excludes others, perhaps it "flows" from one state to another incoherently. Perhaps you've managed to reify the vaues you hold dearest so that they take up physical space, like all your socks and vestments and hats and crazy scarves. Where, I wonder, will you store your values? Can your closet take such clutter? Or maybe, you've taken a wait-and-see approach. Maybe you're suspending all judgement until you have in your hand and, later, on your wall, your M.A.; then you may proceed to judge everything beneath you, for you have climbed the mountan. You are the free spirit; maybe all these colours exist just for you at this moment; maybe your crazy scarf is the repository of the colours of the world. November to you is a time of symbolic dying trees, just as March will be the symbolic re-emergence of life. And one day you may say to yourself: "finally, there is nothing tying me down; no vagaries of plot, no concern for my physical compromised safety; I can think. Just think".

I'd love to meet someone like you.

Consider: "a twenty-minute slow jam does not enlightenment make. But it sure is fun. And occasionally profitable."