Man is a strange bird, a rare bird, divided against himself. He is one and two, two and one. Witness to his antics, he listens to himself singing and then bepuzzles himself with thoughts about the Witness (Is it one or many?) and its relation to the feathered biped perched on the branch (identity or difference?).
A touch of class would be added to this observation were I to dig up the implied Upanishad verse. But that would cost too much effort and time. Old Sol is set shortly to rise over the magnificent Superstitions and I must go for my long Sunday run now if I am to make my Mesa breakfast date with Peter and Mikey at Cindy's Greasy Spoon.
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