A dense undergrowth of extension cords sustains my upper world of lights, music, and machines of comfort.
I am now old enough to make common cause with my predecessors against my successors.
The harp is an insipid instrument--no good for dancing, feasting, or marching, only for sitting primly in a parlor or on a cloud.
Philosophy likes to keen common sense on the run.
The self-righteous rule out the possibility that they are what has gone wrong.
My nostalgia is for the impossible.