I cannot choose to ignore this feeling, of life slowly bleeding out of me. I cannot ignore the fact that life only makes sense to me when I see a smile, or feel another hand in mine.

Our world is limited by the machinery we carry. Its very different to the 18th and 19th century Enlightenment scientists who were mostly men of God and thought it was their quest to uncover Gods great plan.

Many scholars have complained of our tendency to see history only in conflicts, but I am not convinced they are right. It is in conflict that our values are exposed.

The mind is not a machine, it is an idea. And the Idea resists all attempts to control it.

In the end, living is defined by dying.

Consciousness is the feel of accessing memory.

Thought, like any parasite, cannot exist without a compliant host.