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Why the fuck are you my friend. Why the fuck am I even nice to you.
lost reflections.
wordsworth seems to be feeling his way toward a balance: not the pure idea, wreathed in clouds, nor the visual image burned on the retina, overwhelming and disappointing us with its matter-of-fact clarity, but the sense image, kept as fleeting as possible, as a means towards stirring or activating the idea that lies buried more deeply in the soil of memory.
