Love

To speak philosophically, Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. Nothing is easier for humanity than knocking boots. Humans can knock boots with both hands tied behind their backs, blindfolded, upside-down, underwater, drunk, asleep, high. (In fact, it might be better that way, hehya!) There is virtually no condition under which it is impossible. Nothing is more fit to our nature: we are boot-knocking fools.

You think driving is easy? Of course you do, you’re a wonderful driver. But try driving with both hands behind your back underwater blindfolded upside down and asleep? God bless! good luck! my love. . . .

You are lovely. You were born for leisure, for what comes easy. You were meant for a life of pleasure and comfort, not a life of travail in this industrial mortal madhouse. You are royalty. Don’t strain yourself: every bead of sweat is a deformity; every wince, a disfiguration of your angelic cheeks. Do what comes easy. Knock boots. A godsmith worked the exquisite chain of your DNA with the most minute, fragile hammer; tapping it, ever so gently, with genius and with love. Every delicate twist in your DNA turns you in that direction. Like a plant to light, you turn. You turn toward what comes natural, you turn toward your nature. You turn toward . . .  you know.  Knock boots, weird freak, get loose like an octopus, tremble like a leaf, burn like the morning star.

This, my love, is philosophy.