A baby’s high chair so high his head’s in the clouds, and, to feed the dear angel, we must climb the nearest mountain through ice and snow with his tiny spoon in our hands — but why do we imagine such things? To explain, I suppose, the ice on our shoes, and the spikes and the ropes.
A man’s thoughts so low we must sound the very depths of hell just to meet him — but why imagine such things? To name our griefs and our woes, in the vain hope they will save us? Or to find out what happens in between?
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