Everything on this page is a lie. Wake up.
You're late for class.
Today's the day you are to present your ideas. How could you forget.
You know perfectly well the secret of everything.
Why can't you speak it?
You're being looked at.
So you speak,
and after a few halting missteps you speak perfectly
and you're beautiful.
But nobody likes what you are saying,
though they're too polite to say so.
You've lost absolutely everything. And you walk home in the cold.
Somewhere along the way you have fallen in love.
Everything on this page is a lie. And time has stumbled.
Good prose is a slow walk over gentle terrain.
To speak the final things of philosophy good prose will never do. Nor of love.