that the
human intellect
is like
peacock feathers.
Just an
extravagant display
intended to
attract a mate.
All of art,
literature, a bit of Mozart,
William
Shakespeare, Michelangelo,
and the
Empire State Building...
Just an
elaborate mating ritual.
Maybe it
doesn't matter
that we
have accomplished so much
for the
basest of reasons.
But, of
course, the
peacock can
barely fly.
It lives in
the dirt, pecking
insects out
of the muck,
consoling
itself with its great beauty.
(Westworld.S01E07)
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