even in a crowd I feel lonely

so then there’s that.

Now something for the dogs.

Philosophical Zombies (a riff on the mind-body problem)

He’s just like me, down to the last spiral on the helix
down to the last subatomic particle zooming about
in indefinite, unknowable patterns inside the meat
that makes a man a man or a dog a dog, we
are microscopically identical and yet-
here in my living room he never laughs when
Groucho, up on the HD screen, pokes fun at poor
Margaret Dumont or dances randomly about.
He doesn’t cry when our (my) wife says she hates us (me)
he has no reaction to the crimson of that girl’s dress
this is, as they say in the texts, a lack of qualia.
I cannot deny it. Still though, as persuasive as the
argument may be, it still does not mean that
I have a soul

Emma Watson is getting hot

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