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I've never been very solipsistic--whenever someone has suggested that maybe the world was entirely a construction of my mind, I couldn't help wondering why my mind wouldn't have constructed it to be really awesome.
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The word "time" split its husk; poured its riches over him; and from his lips fell like shells, like shavings from a plane, without his making them, hard, white, imperishable words, and flew to attach themselves to their places in an ode to Time; an immortal ode to Time.
—Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway
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