Chris Stevens
Episode 3.09,
"Get Real"
If there's
nothing of substance in the world,
if the ground we walk on is just a
mirage, if reality itself really
isn't, what are we left with, what
do we hang our hat on? Magic: the
stuff not ruled by rational law. Now
that might not seem too comforting,
but stay with me here. What's the
height of the irrational, the zip
code of the mysterious? Exactly.
O my luve's
like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair
art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my
dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a'
the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
Oh I will love thee still, my
dear,
While the sands o' life shall
run.
And fare
thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand
mile.
[The poem is
"A Red, Red Rose," found in
Robert Burns: Selected Poems]
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