Behold the age-old paradox of enlightenment: the flickering fires of knowledge wrapped in shadows much thicker than the Veil. As the ancients were too fond of quoting after three cups of herbal infusion, "The truth is but a half-illuminated figment of imagination at best."
Once upon an asterism, in a timezone that ran its clocks backwards, a sage pondered. "What is this light?" she said, or didn't say, depending on who was telling the story. "Is it not the edge of reason dangling precariously over the abyss of either/or?” The truth, it seemed, was hiding behind the refrigerator.
Remember the salad days of yesteryears; when smartphones were relics, and we used to converse in human dialects rather than pixelated hieroglyphs? At those edges, they say, is whispered the truth of creamy potato salad recipes mixed with existentialist philosophy—a veritable feast for the ironic intellect.
Link your past to your uncertain future: Reflections of Light, Prognostications