The myth of proof and counterparts : Syndrome of Narrative 2
The gallops of a hardening time of doing and daring amateur science gush forth and forward, yet, i have hardly known it. Scientist creeps through the grounds sickly. In no return of fate is a tact so wrongful in dismissal, so abrupt in the making. Four year into, formalized it, 4 years, practice. The works stay the same, boundaries callous and she is a shepherd and I don’t have any idea. A barista, say, is preparing a cappuccino; a commander-in-chief is missing a point and a woman is in a dearly protest. Each of these people operate under radiating ideologies, as variably pressing as they might be. The Protest means you are the idea, anthropomorphized. The President is a ghost of policy/practice and idea in the mutual making, never meant for the societal human so he continuously disregards. The Coffeemaker is craft with less than zero indoctrination. Well then, what is it that i am doing? What in the world of these people where the daily activity is cathartic to the essence of the discourse, where you lie to people to tell the truth to lie to the senate, and where the camera watching over the coffee beans and plastic lids will be the most you Foucault, delete that, where the pure practice is default, how in the world of these people does one without myth, one without reckless joy make it?
