Drinking coffee with friends, I loved myself dearly. We all did really. We would talk for hours about the meaning of life, referencing Kierkegaard, Camus, Dostoevsky, or any number of courageous thinkers we admired. And I remember looking upon issue after issue with cool detachment as if I were a scientist observing what I saw from a microscope. We’d examine different schools of thought and discuss their positive ...
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