It is easy to prove the Earth round without any scientific device.
How else could everyone imagine themselves the center of the world?
I begged the doctor for a prescription. My eyes hurt, I said, they always hurt.
He asked if objects near or far were blurry, if the proportion of things was wrong, if men's faces appeared bearded.
He asked if my eyes were bothered by effulgent lights, modern art, politics. I said no.
``Why then,'' he laughed, ``what can be wrong?''
My eyes cannot stand the dark. ``The dark?'' he pondered.
Where light fails, there remain dark hues, colors that burn, colors that blind, absence of purpose, mocked symmetries, bleeding discord. I see these when light no longer distracts me.
I cannot unsee, cannot unknow. Do I alone suffer this torment?
``No,'' he mused. ``Perhaps,'' he corrected. Suddenly he perked up, aglow.
``I will not remove your eyes, for you do not see with them, but I have a solution. Live in light, and listen to music.''
That is no answer, I barked. What value has a doctor if he cannot cure so simple a thing?
``But, the music,'' he whispered as I left, ``the music is always with us.''
I smiled. He heard dark tones. This man was unhappier than I, but did not know it.
The world brightened, dark hues receded.