Sometimes, I like to think about Immanuel Kant going to the doctor's office, of the sweat in tiny stars along his giant forehead as the doctor presses a stethoscope to the pale swell of his chest. My fantasies about Pascal are slightly sexier; he is usually eating an enormous grapefruit in his underwear, usually around four in the morning, while his valet is still asleep. David Hume is obviously walking next to a lake, but I mostly imagine the moment when he stops thinking about The Treatise on Human Nature and realizes he has to piss. In my head, he has very delicate hands, and hooks two fingers around his belt buckle and thinks on it hard.
I don't allow myself to think about Kierkegaard much, because when I do he's usually naked and that's just so damn obvious. When I think about Montaigne, I just get ridiculous; I imagine the two of us under his fleur-de-lis patterned canopy bed, daring eachother to hold our breath until we black out, whispering to eachother when we come to: What did you see? I saw a lot of colors, and Macchu Picchu I think.
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