Angels on the head of a pin. See them multiply – like bacteria in an agar jar, fed on the nutrients they most desire, yet going nowhere, until they eat all there is and die of their own success. The scholars who read and write and multiply words feed upon one another in the arrogance of their self-contained world.
Words, words, like angels; terms, more words, untied to any reality, yet hinting that they know something deep, profound, wise. But the words and angels are not about anything beyond themselves: words, words. It all sounds good, correct…as long as there is no demand to do anything, to apply, to give us some understanding of any experience, of our being. For being is simply, merely assumed, and not relevant, and experience cheapens the theory and ideas; so we are told.
It is all the Glass Bead Game, where the players control the concept of the world, and the concept itself controls the world. But it is not clear, increasingly not relevant, whether there is any world…or any life.
Reality? Muffled by the crowds of angels on the head of the pin, spinning stories, dizzying our thoughts.