Nature is a word, an allegory, a mold, an embossing, if you will.
Progress, this great heresy of decay.
Drowsing, they take the noble attitude of a great sphinx, who, in a desert land, sleeps always, dreaming dreams that have no end.
However incoherent a human existence may be, human unity is not bothered by it.
In this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.
With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.