We are beautiful people.

A million thoughts, vivisected.

Lord, the effort they put into this. Why Lord? Why?

Another path through the wilderness:

The words don't come easy. My right hand hurts from punching myself in the face the other day, and its hard to type. But type I must, some strange ancient code compels me, from the beginning of time. If you read this, save it on your hard drive, and publish it somewhere else in several years, or after I am gone. It doesn't matter that you don't understand, it really doesn't matter until the sun sets on ancient shores.

He's old and his skin is cold. The ancient secret is that there is not so much distance between the Gods and you. Its not written in some secret place, but rather in the wood glue, the smell of two by fours: The endeavor of construction that scientific advances always were and and will always be. The last realm of scientific conquest of this age (and this is the realm being explored now) is the realm of the self, this strange attribute of consciousness and the brain. There will come a time, when the man who dedicates his thoughts to the nature of self, just as men a generation or two before did to designing a better mousetrap, will be inevitably confronted with the fluidity of its nature.

We who are thinkers, we who are intellectuals, what a tiny amount of things we have achieved. Wise are those of us who honor our father and mother, who look back at Socrates. He reasoned: "All men are mortal, Socrates is a mortal, therefore Socrates will die". If you know the logical foundation of all mathematics, you know the importance of this. And in boolean logic, in every computer program that runs, or the ones of the future, the importance of this. Socrates must die. So thus the hemlock, thus the confession before his execution by the state, thus history, the executioners escaping down the crap shoot of history.

Its all there, a million silent flowers of divinity between the statement "Socrates must die" coming from his own lips to his students and the moment of execution. Both an eternity and the blink of an eye. And in this garden and its seeds, the hiding of it in the dark age, the planting of it in the enlightenment, the blossoming of it in Newton and Curie and Tesla and the rest yet always, Socrates must die.

Friends, none of this matters. Because the essence of it, the thing you should not be afraid to spill your own blood for because it is so true is, that Socrates must die, and this is perfect.

The issue is this, the man just does not die. What forgotten garbage did his shadowy executioners believe in? Nobody cares. What matters is that 2000 or so years after the fact, Socrates did not die. Perfect words are so rare, they form this kind of oasis that the hearts of the world drink from for so long, so long. But their perfection lies in their meaning, and their meaning is what was carried by the million silent flowers of divinity between their speaking, and the moment it was realized. Socrates must die.

A million silent flowers, speaking in a voice so loud that only children and fools have a hope of ever hearing them. The truth is so simple that nobody hears it: Even in these words I speak tonight, what is concealed from the wise and the prudent is revealed unto babes.

At that time Jesus answered and said, I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.

Yes, thank you. THANK YOU. A million times, thank you. Good night, America, Good night.