Is my mind mine
only to mine
ideas from thoughts
to imagine
and construct
what could be
from nothing
and there it dwells
inside the head
until the mouth
and fingers
and toes
make it so?
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Truth (with a capital "T") is the elephant, and humanity the blind touching, sniffing, tasting, listening to this big "T" and of course we all rhapsodize a different tale (or tail?), yet in the end the big "T" is still the big "T" and all our various tales describe a tiny bit of that reality, the elephant.
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