I'm taking you with me, that we like being here together under the acacia and the pine, in this whirl of flowers,waves, quartets, migrane and backache. That's how the sensation of time is born. And once given, these perceptible moments join up into minute acts. Though they come outof the void, they join together and bear us up. So it's obvious that time can't exist without love.
Time is the love of little things. . . .
Between any two stated conceptions of contingency, a third conception may be found to be required by a change in our explanatory ideas. Reading this passage, one can almost hear Unger's dachshund barking in the background, its own restricted and contingent existence fueling the metaphorical fire of his undeniably powerful intellect. It is content with the low places that people disdain. Thus, it is like the Tao. In dwelling, live close to the ground .