Thoughts need history. And time. And stuff to think from. Like soil. Like a terroir.
There are, like, mood terroirs. From which philosophies grow. Springing up from our desperation. And horror. And disgust.
Our mood depths. Our temperaments. What shaped us. Made us. Our histories. Our humiliations. And defeats.
And deepest of all: our idiocies. Our deep stupidity. On which our roots drink. From which our vines grow.
What we are! Most deeply! Our originary history. Our inability. Our impotentiality.
The theological profounds of our idiocy. The philosophical fundaments of our stupidity. The deep buried treasure of our idiocy. We can philosophise from that, too.
Work in Progress 