On any given day — and all days are given, and never to be taken for granted — what I think, what I know, and whatever conclusions I reach are of such a temporary nature that I can hardly see how they might be useful to another. They are born of what I might call the Montaigneity of the moment, and serve as matches held up in the darkness of my ignorance, until they burn my fingers. And then another is lit, and another, and another, while I try to make out the phantoms in the corner. That said, it is also possible that the phantoms are more distinguishable to you than they are to me, since I am the one holding the match. And it might be that the light, faint though it is, illuminates me as much as it does the phantoms. It might even be that we are each other — something I have suspected all along.
December 7, 2019. Evening. Upon reading at random a brief passage of Montaigne.
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