Whim on the top of every door
What if I started to make sense in this calamity - real penetrating insight that extends beyond the particular bounds of my subjective experience - and all of a sudden when it gets (subjectively) better I lose that projecting power?
It seems almost destined to be that way, in the capital “R” Romantic way, as though alleviating suffering (and believe me I say that with one eyed wink) lessens the chances of having said a thing that penetrates?