Go ahead: say what you're thinking. The garden is not the real world. Machines are the real world. Say frankly what any fool could read in your face: it makes sense to avoid us, to resist nostalgia. It is not modern enough, the sound the wind makes stirring a meadow of daisies: the mind cannot shine following it. And the mind wants to shine, plainly, as machines shine, and not grow deep, as, for example, roots. It is very touching, all the same, to see you cautiously approaching the meadow's border in early morning, when no one could possibly be watching you. They longer you stand at the edge, the more nervous you seem. No one wants to hear impressions of the natural world: you will be laughed at again; scorn will be piled on you. As for what you're actually hearing this morning: think twice before you tell anyone what was said in this field and by whom.
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