Words are the least reliable purveyor of Truth.
Mortal as I am, I know that I am born for a day. But when I follow at my pleasure the serried multitude of the stars in their circular course, my feet no longer touch the earth.
Everything that is hard to attain is easily assailed by the generality of men.
The heaven is spherical in shape, and moves as a sphere; the earth too is sensibly spherical in shape, when taken as a whole; in position it lies in the middle of the heavens very much like its center; in size and distance it has the ratio of a point to the sphere of the fixed stars; and it has no motion from place to place.
I know that I am mortal and the creature of a day; but when I search out the massed wheeling circles of the stars, my feet no longer touch the earth, but, side by side with Zeus himself, I take my fill of ambrosia, the food of the gods.
As material fortune is associated with the properties of the body, so honor belongs to those of the soul.
It is clearly evident that most events of a widespread nature draw their causes from the enveloping heavens.
I am a story teller and I take each story very seriously.
I once lay in a white hospital for the dying and the dying self, where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die, where on my knees I prayed for LIGHT, I prayed for l*i*g*h*t, and praying crawled like a blind slug into the web where threads of wind stuck against my mind and I died of pity for Man, for myself, on a cross without nails, watching in fear as the pig belches in his sty, farts, blinks and eats.
A writer may tell me that he thinks man will ultimately become an ostrich. I cannot properly contradict him.
Autumn arrives in the early morning.