Mobs Have Passions, Not Brains.

The Life Of A Poet Lies Not Merely In The Finite Language-dance Of Expression But In The Nearly Infinite Combinations Of Perception And Memory Combined With The Sensitivity To What Is Perceived And Remembered.

Once Upon A Time ... The Only Autonomous Intelligences We Humans Knew Of Were Us Humans. We Thought Then That If Humankind Ever Devised Another Intelligence That It Would Be The Result Of A Huge Project ... A Great Mass Of Silicon And Ancient Transistors And Chips And Circuit Boards ... A Machine With Lots Of Networking Circuits, In Other Words, Aping-if You Will Pardon The Expression-the Human Brain In Form And Function. Of Course, Ais Did Not Evolve That Way. They Sort Of Slipped Into Existence When We Humans Were Looking The Other Way.

Books ... Were Merely Nodes In A Near-infinite Matrix Of Information That Exists In Four Dimensions, Evolving Toward The Idea Of The Concept Of The Approximation Of The Shadow Of Truth Vertically Through Time As Well As Longitudinally Through Knowledge.

Nobody Gets Beyond A Petroleum Economy. Not While There's Petroleum There.

The Whole Planet Reeks Of Mysticism Without Revelation.