but they went ahead and gave him his degree, with which he was able to proffer us the most misappropriated scientific principle since (social) Darwinism. To wit, we shall now continue in that long tradition of mistaking a very specific observation about the behavior of particles for a sweeping generalization. A life lesson, if you will.
Staring at the sun will create one of two possible stars, either spinning like a carousel or rushing through the heavens like a mad stallion. Either way we will imagine a horse.
As we observe the horse, searching for clues regarding its heritage, we will find that we may either know the name of its mother or how well the father must have been endowed, but definitely not both.
And say we choose to know that the mother's name had been Regina, we will find it in a long shadow cast from the early east, from whence the sun spins willy-nilly. Very often, we will watch ourselves walking on a cool morning--long and slender, bristling with the grass as its blades poke and stick through our outlines: those thin things that separate us from the outside world, that which defines us. We are known by what we are not; there is no other way to tell--and we will sometimes confuse ourselves with the light that fails to cast itself, and forget to feel the warmth at our backs and in the creases of our jeans.
The grass is dying, we might think. And if we should stand still all day we can carve out an ovular patch in the ground upon which to lie, considering what may or may not come to pass, or should the king make some form of decree. Either concerning the killing of the grass in his fields or about the nature of his love for his subjects.
Here again, one, but not both, are possible. We may either know what vexes kings or what love they bear. Sadly, our heads might roll if we insist on knowing all the one. Perhaps we should hope for the other.
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