This is the tragedy: Consciousness has forced us into the paradoxical position of striving to be unself-conscious of what we are — hunks of spoiling flesh on disintegrating bones.
“In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, And born in bed, in bed we die; The near approach a bed may shew Of human bliss to human woe.”
Samuel Johnson | “À Son Lit,” from the French of Isaac de Benserade
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