We dispatch ourselves, par ce que nous sommes les docteurs de l'esprit, only to descend to the lower levels (dusty as they may be) where familiar portraits hang from sallow walls, urging us to retire to the attic.
Yet was not our capacity steadily reduced? And might not we have also ignored the matter of the very long cigar, containing not tobacco, but the effervescence of procreation? The off-putting (but gentle) captain did see to it that his fetid but lengthy cigars be slipped into waiting torpedo silos. Freud, too, been clear on the issue, bemoaning our preoccupation. It is an unhealthy and highly vaporous act, he concluded resolutely. But unvaporous acts abound, we might then counter, such as those that we entertain when refraining from perusing likely drivel on the internet.
Think of St. Tropez. Think of the sages of Tibet. Think, also, of Marilyn Monroe as she showers you with kisses.
Think of Old Blighty.