There are times, one must admit, when the world appears a most curious and uncertain place; as though all we see and touch were but a gentle mist upon the morning fields, liable at any moment to lift and reveal we had known very little after all. One may sit by the fire, with the clock ticking dutifully on the mantel and the rain pattering upon the window, and yet wonder, quite sincerely, whether any of it is truly there, or only some kindly dream lent to us for a while. Reality, if such a thing can be firmly named, is perhaps not the stout, reliable old chair we take it for, but something far more delicate: a whisper, a shadow, a half-remembered song.
is this real
There are times, one must admit, when the world appears a most curious and uncertain place; as though all we see and touch were but a gentle mist upon the morning fields, liable at any moment to lift and reveal we had known very little after all. One may sit by the fire, with the clock ticking dutifully on the mantel and the rain pattering upon the window, and yet wonder, quite sincerely, whether any of it is truly there, or only some kindly dream lent to us for a while. Reality, if such a thing can be firmly named, is perhaps not the stout, reliable old chair we take it for, but something far more delicate: a whisper, a shadow, a half-remembered song.