The redundancy is obvious. We do not see the future; we imagine it. The punch-drunk hunger for a crystal ball stays with you long after your last life science class, your last dissection, your last epiphany in the lab. Superstitions are the science of a limited vocabulary, the slurred words of a world drunk on metaphor mistaking poetry for second sight. And all you can do is stumble and weave when reality tattles on you. Your faith, on the other side, in this soothsaying is easily justified (to you). You have a mania for splitting hairs. The lies are teased out with a nit-picking comb, the old crone's brittle mane, until the handful that is left might be called evidence, proof positive of the veracity of the oracle's gift. Bullshit.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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