I have discovered a marvelous new form of meditation that calms even the mighty tempest of my sleepless mind. That of reading; and not reading alone but reading the great works of the near antiquity: Descartes, Poincare, and Leibniz. Even the great canon of Doyle raises my mediation to new heights will giving me a clarity of thought and the peace of relaxation and even-mindedness.
I sit and sip black gold and imbibe the very requiem of antiquity whereby the most puerile of prose rivals the most elegant contemporary poetry, and the most common-place of pre-modern thought portrayed far more of the beauty of creation than that of the most ascended post-modern thinker. Perhaps truth itself capitalized is lost to the annals of time, but thankfully the works of the great thinkers of old still frame the bastion of modern thought. The prodigal still has leave to return.
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