We have no criterion for anything. We live in a Mystery. The data of life are pleasure and pain, and these may be myths; an illusion of the nerve cells.
Seas of sound, light and motion swirl in our brains, and the “great processes” are cell-eddy. Thought is cerebral sight. We may trail Circumstance back to the Primal Antagonism, and there it is lost. Consciousness is the flash produced by friction. Birth is recomposition of old matter, and death is dissolution and recomposition. Mind is evolved from mud, and mud is mind in transition. Form is purely accidental, and the accidental is the unexpected inexorable. Time is the space between thoughts, and thought is Time spluttering. Space is the distance between two illusions, and illusions are what-might-have-been projected on the blank screen of tomorrow. All growth presupposes pain, and all pain engenders growth. Society is the systematization of instincts, and instincts are stratified lusts.
All knowledge is word-juggle. To know all would be to know nothing.
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