Confidence

That part of ourselves we call humanity is an exercise in consolation after falling again and again for that shuffling of the same three-card monte, wishing we wouldn't ask too much when feasting our eyes on a whole new fourth, when it's not there. Occam's razor, Morton's fork, Hobson's choice. We leave the spot once these three lie open and remain hardly ever the graduates of compromise, consoling ourselves with next time. A dream plot carries in itself the perfect excuse for the lack of good taste any old how.