Our lives are very interesting. They do not follow the dramatic arc that our good plans intend. Life is not an art, and only in very rare incidences of pure perfection does the world actually become a stage; and that clearly, people, we can see, is a shame. Imagine all you have to do having been premeditated?
The reality is, our live are actually imperfect visions of reality, and only art, like a pair of reading glasses can correct it. This, my dear readers, is not pro activity, but a reactionary measure.
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