Even paradox feels glib when it makes an exhibition of itself.
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Should Paradise exist, our instincts would have to be filtered out of us by death, or else we’d ruin the place.
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Distinct from other ages, when exile still meant a place of brightness somewhere, there’ll be no green shade to retire to when the world turns to shit.
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Imbeciles who call global warming science a ‘belief’ are on to something yet. Environmentalism shares with God-hankering an inexpressible nostalgia.
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Our gaze is the tribute that beauty demands of us. The bloody tyrant.
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The truth may set you free but it’s cold outside.
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