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Published version that appeared in A Book of Resemblances

One exchanges the empire of one's desires for the anarchy of pleasures.
But pleasures themselves, one finds, are not domestic, and the troubles of the soul cast jewel-like reflections upon the daily surfaces.
One has moved only to a world where the devoted household common places cast shadows that are empires; where the warmth of the hearth is kept alive in a cold that extends infinitely, the dream of a king ruthless in his omnipotence, a plentitude of powers, an overreaching inspired pretension, an unam sanctum, a papal conceit over all beloved things.    We live within ourselves then, like honest woodsmen within a tyrranical forest, a magical element.
Sheltered by our imaginary humble lives from the eternal storm of our rage.