The haste of thoughtlessness

Some cynical misogynistic atheist adroitly died in the truth that, save as oases, readings are as paltry to thoughts as are mere maps to the majesty of the real world: “The intellect, and the fruits thereof, of those laxly learned—are like a large palette, with a myriad colors, which at most are systematically arranged, but devoid of harmony, connection, and meaning.”

Still, edification by manly discovery yet yields to pretended necessity when the era in which one exists appears to punish practice so savagely as, it would seem, to render the intrepidity of a mind all but a dangerous dalliance in a life so small and brief.

Nevertheless, feigning the feeling of undeterred, concomitantly those wry punishers ply plentiful pitiful pliant pleas—i.e. vouchsafing vapid vanities—that stacked, staunch, stoic stones should bleed: doubling half-lives rapidly, aimed only at expediency; even as, all told: for each soul, a sole punisher.

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