Some men prefer acts  --  others like facts the best;
some people most like to do  --  others get their greatest enjoyment from thinking;
everyone does a bit of both with the two normally overlapping and segueing, continually back and forth extrinsic a man’s conscious notice;
to ever get-to-the-bottom-of-things, you must both notice, and clearly comprehend what is going on in this routine, ongoing situation.
Don’t punt when you should be reconsidering your game plan, and don’t be debating previous plays when you should be on the field running the ball.
    “Well Jeeze!  --  what’s the big deal  --  everyone understands that.”
On one world the word and concept of: understands is not tacitly accepted as
a synonym for: remembers.
Once upon a time there was a man who awoke from the dream
and saw what is really going on   --   then he forgot that he had.
    (“They just don’t write fairy tales like that any more.”)
 

The ole timer took the kid aside  --  (then afront and aback, until he had him completely surrounded)  --
and gave him this highway advice:
“While there are numerous proper ways to run off the road and into a ditch,
there is but one to call for a wrecker,”
the kid mused on this for a bit  --  then drifted off to sleep.
 

After a life spent in spasmodic attempts at self improvement,
as he lay on his pre death bed one man gave a quick survey of his life and thought: “Even if I am not now my-own-best friend,
at least I am no longer my own worst pair of running shoes,”
and after smiling for a moment over this  --  he drifted off to sleep.
 

At a small social gathering, a small social person said that one of his greatest
personal pleasures is in giving himself the run-around.
(Sounds likely a rebel get together, no?!)
 

Certain kinds of thinking make certain unseen muscles quite tense.
 

The difference between comedy &  DoingTheThing is not in the material  --
but the audience.
(Only life’s regular employees and associates take the job seriously.)
 

During an excitement wane at a party, one chap suggested they play:
Which Came First: Acts or Facts, but since the game has neither a board or ball,
nor any Rules  --  they never could get quite underway (which, by the way,
gave one party goer an eye opening slap in the face
regarding the very premise of  the game.
Did you experience such a cortical cuff as you  read this?)
 

Everybody wants everyone else to think they know all the answers.
 

The thinking of the independent is for the sake of his independence  --
not to impress others.
 

The working vocabulary of the man-who-knows is whatever his present peers’ is.
 

One guy’s face-mind  cautioned: “Keep your eye out of it!”
 

Mental War News.
All partisans are eventually wounded.
 

To the true rebel: only thoughts from a certain-source
are worthy of unhumorous attention.
 

A city chap took some pills to feel better,
but inadvertently got to feeling better than he'd intended.
 

A Partial Listing Of The Many Benefits.
A sad or angry man doesn’t have to think.
 

From the outlier’s perspective:
those imprisoned in life’s collective thinking are the truly homeless.
 

Life In The Jungle (Aka: The Land Of Acts).
The continuing interplay between the birds and the worms is supported in part by
the indifference thereabout of the elephants,
(though at every meeting of all the animals, none of them can explain this
seemingly irrational connection,
[though also do none of them point out that this is due to them not being able to
deal in facts.])
Underground streams of lava keep the planet alive;
same too collective ideas, the consciousness of ordinary men.
 

At ground level: hormones are to acts as neurons are to facts,
but when you move higher (up to the Homo sapien stratum) it is more complex  --
not sufficient to be inscrutable, but just enough to keep ordinary minds,
routine captives, everyday stay-at-homes  --  off-the-case.
 

When the collective sneezes  --   individual prisoners’ noses run.
 

In the compound forest in which man lives,
only that rara rebel avis ever enters a certain clearing wherein neither acts nor facts seem to have unbridled sway;
a unique spot in which the outlier has an unobstructed view of how these two
actually dance and parry.
 

In the city (at a stand-up; sit-down; then stand-back-up buffet) one fellow confided that he had changed his name to: Basic & Forward (which he went on to say had
proven to be something less than a complete waste of time.
“What more can you ask for in this place?!”  added a chap slipping by with
a plate of deviled eggs.)
 

If you are adequately kitchen savvy you could see facts as being
the hamburger helper of acts.
 

One man started his own newspaper just so he could write Letters To The Editor which eventually culminated in him writing in to say that he’d had it with them,
and would never again be writing in.
(He says that for some time afterwards he experienced a distinct boost in
his overall enthusiasm for life.)
 

No doubt about it: part of the pleasure of being part of a city audience is in getting up, and walking out (being sure you raise sufficient ruckus to make those on stage
aware of your departure).
    “Ha!  --  my acts thumb their nose at your facts, Monsieur!”
 

One man got so mad he changed his name;
 another man got so mad he changed his definition of: mad;
   a third man got so mad he revised his concept of: man,
     while a final guy got so mad and so fed his madness that he exploded & fell silent,
     constructively rendering him invisible in the Facts domain.
 

Upon reading the lines: “Here am I: lost and afraid  --  alone and weary,
in a world I never made,” a man fell pensive  --  and after a bit of reflection thought:
“What poetic imagery,
   what pathos,
    what perception displayed in the confessing of this all too human emotion,    
     what a treasure trove of cosmic pig shit.”
        (Probably not a Book-Of-The-Monther, huh?!)