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Every Man is an Island by Robert Burt
A pond. A stone. A splash and ripples. Concentric circles deflect against the bank and fade. The pond remains when the ripples are gone. The water is still the water. To think that the ripples understand the stone or that they are the pond is to think that an oyster describes the sea or that a wave that falls upon the shore is the ocean. We are like the elements of a pond set into motion by a force we do not comprehend, from where we do not imagine, on its way to a place we know not of. Music is not ink on a page. History is not written in a book. The only true description of the universe is the universe itself. Men's minds do not tell the story of the world, but only of men's minds.
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