The owl of Minerva begins its flight at dusk. When the shadows grow long, the time for wisdom has come. In the gray of morning, however, the awakening consciousness struggles for confidence. Nothing has truly begun yet, and yet everything is already in motion. And is this not the time of the philosopher? Morning after morning, he builds his paper house of being - his journal for philosophical domestic use. The philosopher dreads the daily apocalypse. In contrast, he writes on, grateful for the opportunity to prepare breakfast for his loved ones. While outside the facts are "creating facts," he cultivates domesticity: the small world at the edge of the great one, which stands as a flaming night around his house. Peoples flee from hunger, war, and death; at dawn, they set out towards a West full of barbed wire. "It is what it is." The Philo.