"Don't believe me, just watch!"

The balance between the imaginary and the virtual... I dislike it. It's a matter of complete confusion when it comes to preserving my imagination and collaborate with the outside world. One cannot endure without contacts and social connections, but what happens when imagination predominates?!...
I can't say for sure. As stories tell us what happens in the end and we are supposed to just suck out the concentrated moral ( something like esterification of ethyl alcohols in chemistry ) I can't predict. I'm currently writing my own story. Therefore, I can only follow my deduction from what's going on around me. Hardly do I believe in natural geniuses - true and deep as expected - so as to think anyone else that I know really has this wisdom in possession. My thoughts sound confused... But they are not.
I'm on the edge between the infinite imagination, the vast dimensions of surrealistic happenings and true, realistic dump and sometimes even dull realism. I dislike that. I detest people who believe only realism is life. Imagination is the game and realism is the device of this game.
Imagination is like a dice. You toss it without any other purpose but the primary form of curiousity and thein it shows you the way things should happen. But when have you noticed things to happen the way aesthetic imagination orders them?!....

How to define an aesthete?...

On the late night train to the crappy non-hometown. It's already dark. Three more people in the department. Today was a morally-to-be-questioned day. All day I am absent in the field of my own questions. During sleep. During dreaming. During washing  my face. During drinking the dubious beverage at Zhoro's. What is the damn little object that is always on the way to getting on the journey to real psychology? One has to know their psychological pros and cons to be happy/successful/honest/peaceful. So I am trying. The train sets off. It's dark even at the isle of the damn train. There are just a few lamps out there . I can't really see the fewer trees at the depot station. They're thoroughly swallowed by the close darkness. At the other end of the department a woman of middle age is as I see just another observer of the outside-the-window darkness. She has a strange looking adornment on her maybe red hair. It's a kind of symmetrical plastic tool for keeping hair tight. Then I start thinking.
All day ( and the many days before ) I was throwing my mental baggage at the direction of people. But it was not the people. It was , actually were, two things.
Ethics and aesthetics.
That's the answer. There is no questions anymore, Hamlet.
It's the truth. People, even the whole society, have got used to hiding and killing their aesthetic feelings and aspirations for the sake of ethics. A simple but very important difference. It is vital for one to be aware of it.
Yes. The adornment. Here is how ethics makes people use the aesthetic aspect of symmetry, but doesn't allow one to give the answer symmetrically rude to a rude question.
In terms of spirituality, ethics is what gives the acknowledged frame of an aesthetic feeling. But this frame is brutal. Every frame is brutal as it is a boundary, a restriction.
What makes one an aesthete - the acknowledged symmetrical adornment or the metaphorical answer to an improper question?...