I know that I am very much like everybody else, but not really.
Death is hacking away at my address book and party lists.
Cynicism is full of naive disappointments.
Literary tradition is full of lies about poverty-the jolly beggar, the poor but happy milkmaid, the wholesome diet of porridge, etc.
Thinking about the universe has now been handed over to specialists. The rest of us merely read about it.
Creativity makes a leap, then looks to see where it is.