Lower Extremity
Plato stared into the thick light that oozed into his room. He had worked out nearly all the dialogues here, though he didn’t write most of them himself. He preferred to have one of his students with him for that purpose, once he felt he’d thought through a subject enough. He was forever staring into space, he thought. Did the gods grant him insight because he raised his head toward their realm?
He frowned in irritation. He wanted his ideas to be his own. He was tired of thinking through Socrates. It was time for his words to be understood directly, without metaphor or filter. He needed simplicity, purity. Defiant, he forced himself to look down. He stared at the ground near his left foot. Then he noticed the foot itself. He began to smile.
