Out of damp and gloomy days, out of solitude, out of loveless words, conclusions grow up in us like fungus: one morning they are there, we don't know how, and shouldn't wonder why. They gaze upon us, morose and gray. WOE to the thinker who is not the gardener but only the soil of the plants that grow in them....And WOE to the thinker that notices a
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