There’s never the perfect time for poetic license, because there’s no foreseeable era without cruelty and viral bad luck.

Having luxury of high tropality (the poetic) in view of low happenstance is
no elitism. Chosen highlands may be resorts for preserving True humanity
against tempestuous landscapes, horrors, and tragedies of life, not escapist reach
for tropal sublimity.

But the uncanniness of pretending distance from storms is stark for me, every day,
as if inhumanity, hunger, and suffering are impossible.

Building inclusive castles (or invisible cities)—albeit centripetal by intelligent selection—advances wholly flourishive life, one hopes (or at least such protects
our humanity), against crude exclusiveness, willful stupidity, and natural selection.

So, tropal thinking is necessary, vital evincing from somewhere: sacred literatures, literary exemplarity, conceptual venturing.

For our children, we want all adversity to be inconceivable. In our stories,
animal reality is long outgrown—or can be The Point: We are an adamance.

“You are made of philosophy.”

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