Moot 5

One has to expect less with a smaller field of brain, if consciousness were a harvester of unplanted wheat, thronging, as it were, within nature's general perfume, lasting the breadth and intensity of noontime, before swiftly departing as night decks out its silent staggered arrays, seeped into the accumulated security of homes, pictures, as it were, framed by mold-breeding brick against the north north west wind.