We know not what spurs our habits,
Our compulsions, our drives.
Most thought hides; we are but abbots,
Stewards of sacred hives;
Served by legions of selfless monks,
Who follow a scripture
Written by idiots and drunks.
The mind is a picture.
A big old bricolage. Philosophy (every kind, but nowadays I probably will only write on philosophy of x, where x is a science or mathematics (+retain some interest in meta-phil/meta-ethics)), leftish politics (but now weary of political pontificating), (post-Keynesian) economics (but now weary of economic theorising), palaeoanthropology, linguistics, history, natural history, ecology, and some (mostly old) writing of a more artistic kind, autobiographical and fiction (both mostly humorous).
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