There was once a man who sat alone in a fine mansion. It was as secure a place as he could imagine and he considered it his home. The first hour of every morning he would gaze admiringly at its walls, each glossed with logic and its rational tale. But it had not always been such an imposing building. When he was a boy it was merely a hut, a flimsy box of wood and nails, of wishes and dreams, and this had caused him great anxiety. So, as a young man, with great perseverance he gradually strengthened its frame and expanded its design until he became its undisputed master.
Satisfied that he had judged the world aright, he would spend the evenings alone, reading and critiquing the opinions of others. In this way he would count his possessions and thereby examine his worth, for what he had gathered in his journey of logic had solidified for him into columns of strict thought.
He was not a bad man. Neither was he corrupt or dull, careless or lazy. He had simply delivered himself into the belief that he was an island in an ocean of chaos and indifference, but in doing so he had sealed himself off so tightly that he was unable to acknowledge the radiance that sustained him. Such were the cold, hardened structures of his life. It was a lodge of reason.