Last night Plato asserted that the worst thing about living in trillium is that you can’t, on habit, sit outside and stare at it.
He was two shots in and professing at me the beauty of such a building, but to me even a shoebox could be a building.
I don't think he knows anything, how could he?
He died centuries ago.
He definitely doesn’t know anything about living in trillium, but he knows more about staring at it than I do.
Maybe that’s the worst thing about living anywhere, not knowing.
not knowing what else.
not knowing anything but the view from the window.