All inner lives are effective introspection as self-inflected augmentation of perceived external eyes or minds and expectations. It is the value-judgement or criticality (and even, rarely, admiration) that billows and swirls as complex blossoms inside us. Those borrowed drops of liquid Other’s minds or seamless perception might like toxic ink pollute the crystal clear of these, our lonely souls so cast from day to night, and define us (and limit us) in words or thoughts of acquired pattern and purpose that we have always (and as though by instinct) so foolishly believed to be our own.

They are not ours, we are theirs.

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