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    Turning inward, you just look, you don't look inward. Chasing the ringed carriage of idyllic dreams, Into memories of childhood's past, into the unchangeable past, Into the blunders of your futility; There you dwell, who is the man who whispers to you the beseeching words of your conscience!

    Thou seest merry, jumping players around thee- All rule-breaking, thou thyself imaginest, This must be Order in the midst of disorder! And the rest of thy unsuspected, secretly lurking helpers - tell me, where have they gone?! Thou hold'st in thyself thy individual, selfish hopes, if thou hold'st them by word and call your feelings by their name! Your heart trembles when you have to decide with responsibility, so you ask them, and what they murmur into the gaping shells of your ears you may yet decipher, you may put into words like a message-telling hermit, a mute prophet in apostasy - you war with opinions, you argue!

     Within the immortal cauldron of the True Word that thou hast always feared, and fled from whenever thou shouldst have stood! In your selfishness you have consciously remained a child! You guarded your child-dreams with care, and would have proudly hidden yourself underground, to see for yourself through the mirrors of your host's eyes, the only possible guarantee of your survival: Cowardly flight! 

    I have to think of my kicked stomach, and ponder how much I have not done, nor yet could have done, within the confines of my narrowing fears! And each time I have been the victim of a tender injury, my ears have been deafened by howling packs of wolves. - Perhaps I, too, have lost a little of my person, in so many changing shapes!

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