The Table The Chair The Vestibule

The day began with me thinking that Descartes was a buffoon, a comical evil savant. As the day drew on (against my protestations to the contrary) I felt more affectionate towards the father of modern philosophy, even though my reason cautioned me against it. Once I allowed the trappings and hogtied(ness) of my epistemic self to loosen up a wee bit, a fraction perhaps, I came to the conclusion (something, conclusions, I seldom have, or come to for that matter) that he wasn’t such a bad fellow after all, in fact I began to like him, in an unreasonable sort of way. Fuck the wax and ions, the molecules and extended substances, screw the table the chair the vestibule and the foyer, maybe Descartes was on to something, and I, being such a caddish philosopher, had to admit I was mistaken, a buffoon, an evil savant with a head cold and a bad sense of sense.