It may be true that my desk here is really "nothing but" a transient eddy of electrons in the flux of universal process. Nevertheless, I find that it continues to support my feet, my revolver, and my cigars all day long. What happens when my back is turned I don't know. Or much care. That's no concern of mine.
Edward Abbey
(1927 - 1989)
Source: A Voice Crying in the Wilderness (Vox Clamantis in Deserto): Notes from a Secret Journal, Page: 12
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