The Unconscious Is Selective, When It Learns

No Matter How Long A Log Stays In The Water, It Doesn't Become A Crocodile.

In This Dark World Where He Now Dwelt, Ugly Things And Surprising Things And Once In A Long While A Tiny Wondrous Thing Spilled Out At Him Constantly; He Could Count On Nothing.

A Human Being Without The Proper Empathy Or Feeling Is The Same As An Android Built So As To Lack It, Either By Design Or Mistake. We Mean, Basically, Someone Who Does Not Care About The Fate Which His Fellow Living Creatures Fall Victim To; He Stands Detached, A Spectator, Acting Out By His Indifference John Donne's Theorem That "no Man Is An Island," But Giving That Theorem A Twist: That Which Is A Mental And A Moral Island Is Not A Man.

No Man Is Infinitely Strong; For Every Creature That Runs, Flies, Hops Or Crawls There Is A Terminal Nemesis Which He Will Not Circumvent, Which Will Finally Do Him In.

But As He Plodded Along A Vague And Almost Hallucinatory Pall Hazed Over His Mind; He Found Himself At One Point, With No Notion Of How It Could Be, A Step From An Almost Certain Fatal Cliffside Fall—falling Humiliatingly And Helplessly, He Thought; On And On, With No One Even To Witness It. Here There Existed No One To Record His Or Anyone Else's Degradation, And Any Courage Or Pride Which Might Manifest Itself Here At The End Would Go Unmarked: The Dead Stones, The Dust-stricken Weeds Dry And Dying, Perceived Nothing, Recollected Nothing, About Him Or Themselves.