Now that phenomenal existence is no more bolstered by impressions from within or without, we feel the need to lean on something that abides, that will never play us false – a reality, an absolute and everlasting truth: the perfect friend.
I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises, and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the Earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire–why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express & admirable; in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god: the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals–and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
It seemed as if this were the Loom of Time, and I myself were a shuttle mechanically weaving & weaving away at the Fates; and here, thought I, with my own hand I ply my own shuttle and weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads.
Seven older gentlemen of various political persuasions gather in the courtyard under the squawking birds to politely discuss and examine, in regulated heartbeat, the current issues and events of the week.
High-school classmates, both living & dead, unknown to others outside of Los Gatos, they also like to talk about.