Who knows?

Moderate solipsism, they told me, was a necessity for a fulfilling life, for, without an error of judgment slanted toward the old monotheistic tendencies of the self, we may fail to truly become that which we are meant to be. An odd parody, I replied, after they finished with a thump of their cane on the hard rosewood floor, if we are to find acute realizable benefits from acting out of turn, to wit, knowingly skewing that which is most central, why should it be that we cannot do so by sticking our noses close to the floor and sniffing out the scent of that great beast we try to fantasize away in rock ballads and operas, or when cresting the horizon of our loving globe on feather-weight crafts?  I fail to understand exactly what you spell out, and so, perhaps, I said to them with the sternest most direct tone I could muster at the time, aided, I'll admit by a peppering of post-lunch whiskey, that their errors certainly created a disfavorable impression of their persons upon this person, to wit: they would be hurt greatly by their misappropriation before getting to the place they so desired, a brand of heaven, or a denial of hell, I'm not sure which to rule non-existent yet based on these old chaps, and I haven't had my evening tea either, so we'll allow the dichotomous nature of their comments to twist about in the ether a few moments longer until perhaps they will tire and come thudding down by the war-torn shoes they so eagerly removed upon entering.