Hayao Miyazaki and Socrates are stuck in Library Locked-In Overnight and forced to have a deep conversation.

Miyazaki: All these dusty tomes... it’s a cage for stories yearning to fly, much like humanity trapped by its own rigid structures.

Socrates: Indeed, but is the cage not also the form that gives shape to the formless yearning? Does the question itself not define the search?

Miyazaki: Perhaps, but the search shouldn't be shackled. We must allow the wind to carry us to unexpected destinations, even if they are imperfect.

Socrates: Imperfection, you say? Is not the pursuit of unattainable perfection what elevates us beyond the beasts?

Miyazaki: No, it's the acceptance of flaws, the beauty within the broken, that truly reflects the human spirit's resilience.

Socrates: But how can one discern genuine beauty from mere prettiness, without a standard, a *logos*, to guide the eye?

Miyazaki: *Logos* can blind us! Listen instead to the rustling of the leaves, the silent wisdom held in nature's chaotic harmony.

Socrates: But is not nature itself subject to the same relentless cycle of creation and destruction, a chaos devoid of inherent meaning?

Miyazaki: Meaning is not inherent; it is woven, thread by thread, from our connection to the world and our responsibility to nurture it.

Socrates: So, then, the true philosopher is not the seeker of absolute truth, but the humble gardener, tending to the fragile blossoms of meaning?