We remember the odd thing, here, there, no one knows why there triggers in us the memory. I have forgotten important things, I am sure, and recall the exact color of a childhood toy; and this oddness is what we call normal, regular: the exception is the rule. I might think there is some purpose to the whole affair, but what it may be cannot easily be discerned by these senses of mine: the mystery lingers, the peculiar mystery of it, the eccentricity of this unknown. I could guess that such things reflect the nature of the world, if we think on it, and only consider it odd because of how we perceive what is important to us: through these finite eyes. It may be that infinity must reflect upon the limited in eclectic ways if we are to receive the flavor of what is beyond. Or at least, realize what is out there, out there, odd that we might even conceive that it is.
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