The Sixth Net
Solitude is the blessed time of philosophy. In the bustle of life, thoughts are like butterflies: they are born, tremor with colourful light wings and disappear, perish. Man must reason and perceive the world. For how will he then differ from animals, birds, even trees? Cogito, ergo sum.1 Death arrives when one stops reasoning and becomes a wordless, mute creature, which anyone can skin to make a pair of boots.
Solitude... However, it too is not enough for happiness. People were attracted to people. The community was like a magnet, attracting, providing work for hands and minds, sharing social experience, absorbing it. Like bees we gathered the nectar of thoughts from everywhere and brought it to the common hive of human intellect.
For fifteen months Hryhoriy lived in the
