Wearing a discouraged look and a Yankee's cap, one guy says that for many years
one of his private pleasures in life was talking-to-his-self  –  until he suddenly realized that the one listening to him talk is the same one who is doing the talking.
   (“Man! – what a con job!”)

Gazing through a window pane, a man reflected:
“Would not proof of a life well spent be the deceased not troubling the living!?”
(Within seconds he was floored by the implications of this vis a vis the realm of his own thinking.)

All the questions men’s minds want answered, their minds made up:
where can this lead? --
every problem men want to understand in their mind, their mind conjured up;
what can this come to?

Confab.
“Anything that’s true in man’s second-reality at the expense of something else being false, is not true.”
   “But that’s the only kind of true there is in that world?!?”
“So what d’ya want me to do!?”

Mused a man: “It must be awful to be of ordinary mind and know that you're not as stupid as you sound when you say many of the things Life makes you say,
and yet have no way of letting others know this.”

“…and in conclusion may I say,” (which he did) “a man who would read a book while on an ocean voyage should have his privileges of consciousness taken away.
(He might also ignore my comments.)”

There have recently been released some statistics which give substantial evidence of there being a home field advantage in favor of Life over man.
   (“If and when it comes to that,” notes local conditions.)

One man says that almost every night just before he falls asleep in bed, he can hear
a certain part of his brain say, quite distinctly: “Is it safe to come out now?”

According to one fellow, the simple solution is: rename rats roses,
and roaches, little-brown angels.
Words warned one man’s consciousness:
“We brought you into this world, and we can damn-sure take you out!”

Two followers of different spiritual masters were talking and one said:
“What I like about my guru is that he doesn’t ask me about my private life.”
    “Perhaps he’s simply not interested.”
“Naw, he’s not that awake.”

A guy hiding in the bushes in city park has been whispering to passersby: “Aggravation is the only sure sign of life.”              (Perhaps those particular bushes are thistled?!?)

In a speech, the Royal Priest of one state said:
“A man who is virtuous simply by his own nature is not conforming to the community’s needs and has no afterlife reward awaiting,” and the King leapt to his feet and led the Court cheering section in shouting:
“Fuck him! – screw him! -- dirty rotten traitor!”
There are specific ways things are to be done in man’s second-reality
(the city part of consciousness) and loyal citizens (neurons & synapses)
don’t take kindly to individuals' deviation there from.
   (“Pa pa, when I grow up can I say: ‘Fuck inner conformity?”
         “As long as you do it in private.”)

In Life’s ballroom there are two different moralities: one for dancers who lead,
another for those who follow.

As he signaled for a refill, the guy on the adjacent stool said:
“What need have I for books and universities  –  ideas which oppose my ideas
are life’s supreme instructors.                (If of course, you know how to use them correctly.)”

A Fact.
Man is the only zebra who must, his self, paint on one area of his stripes.

A Conversation.
“Well, if you don’t do it  –  who will!?”
    “Well, if it does’t have to be done  –  who cares!?”
Thus is the natural human-way.           (Cue the cheering section again.)

One set of local conditions which seems to harbor a grudge,
swears he has heard Life in private say:
“Everything, everywhere, at all times is exactly as it should be   –   almost.”

In an unexpected place was found this graffito:
“Fear a surgeon with an unbloodied scalpel and trust not a knight with a similar sword.”
    (Aka: Being able to say the word: “Enlightened” doesn’t swing a lot of meat in the real Camelot.)

One man directed that upon his death his tongue be diced and fed to his dog
   (“Seeing as how he had control of it most of my life.”)

After being informed that once the twelve notes in a musical octave are played,
they then simply repeat themselves over and over,
a man surveyed the many notes on a piano keyboard and thought:
“In that case  –  to hell with most of them.”