“alone, the monastery perched on a high hill, / accessible only via a long and arduous trail”

Thinking at the anatomical level about the potential scourge of pathogens and parasites has led me to conclude that my physical body is more discerning and intelligent than any so-called “thinking” person, much less any government.

Fiction has always been a laboratory to study the human condition but with the advancements of technology and science becoming more commonplace, fiction has become a simulation runner to experiment on the plausible consequences of these achievements.

Certain writers assault you with their intelligence, not as, or only as, a performance, but rather out of necessity: they simply cannot stop thinking. Humor has long been the balm of metacognition, laughter a scaffolding over the abyss.

What is a ghost? Is it an apparition that appears at night to frighten us? Is it a spirit at unrest, refusing to pass on to the next life until it settles a score with our world?