We live simply because we can’t embrace complex stuff. We are too much bogged down in our words, exploring the invisible connections between them. After we die we simply live our deaths.
We live our deaths from our high stools. When there is no rain from the cotton clouds, our cotton will kick it’s high stool after its flowers turn yellow with death . The cotton will fall to the ground with its tongue sticking out. Our cotton will live it’s death.
But here we carry on our high thinking nevertheless .