Like a membrane, strained and pulled and finally popped, a retroactive sense of responsibility lifts too far above psychosis to be anything but strict, self-restraint. Is this the banal, biological, survivalistic mechanism come to save itself from ruin? Or is it just another step forward?
How do we know ourselves? We are only the paper on which we project our own feelings, and nothing more. Real-time actions betray the philosopher in me. The taste of the sea betrays the romantic in me: The salty, morose sweetness of the grand Goliath of Nature; progression.
We have evolved for nothing but symbols and strings, tained by cognitive dissonance.
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