Let's have an objective conversation about abstraction, right? Let's try to quantify that which is unquantifiable, yeah? OH, HOLY: What say you? The wren that nests in the garage flees from me, for I am a solid of greater mass than she. The wren that nests on the column flees from me, for I am less a prophet than she. The cat comes willingly, and he comes to me, for I stroke him gently and croon his name, lovingly and consistently, throughout and over the nine lifespans of his extended kittenhood. It is this cat's right and mine to comfort each other with fur or finger.

Familiar movements, like ritual. Systems, numeric patterns, are ritualistic and quantify quite efficiently. They skillfully maintain their abstract, not to mention their objective, and dwell somewhere midway alongside fallen Icarus, a melted pair of wax wings, and the myth of the gluttonous sea. In that way, the mathematician is a poet is an artist is a historian is an activist, and it all behaves - so sterile and routine. But my weak, unnatural prophetic vision has informed me of a mark to end all marks. A spot, a dot, a little speck of something leftover, the way a crumb is leftover to mix with other crumbs and pile and vanish. Punctuation. A period. Yes, I think I'd like to die the way a period is dead. Not to live again, having taken full responsibility for some sentence - maintaining it, guiding and preserving each word that cascades in its wake. Dumb cygents behind a Swan.

Do not be misled - the period - the punctuation - is parental. It leads. But though it informs and inspires, it should not call you home. In its shadow, you should feel all the more enticed to leave. So, mathematically, if you were to live as that point of divergence, you could perhaps, as our Dictionary would have you believe, "give a measure of the quality of flux emanating from any point of the vector field or the rate of mass, heat, et cetera, from --" ... well, you: The Point. And, oh, imagine how heavy a pause your passage and point could inspire, a hot hush, followed by a forward push. Your end, if it is indeed as potent as it could be, would reclaim its wildness again and again.

It's all the Heaven there is, and you can start off towards it immediately. No application fee. No interview. No standardized testing. No initiation. Free admission. Many specific heavens that multiply asexually by way of bee or bird or breeze, whatever beast. Incidental multiplication / The wheel of fortune. It turns, it turns, it turns. All of physics. It turns too. And everything turns. "Let it turn!" I might insist, with that upward inflection that implies I'm only half-certain my tone reflects a genuine sentiment.

I don't want to pursue simple solutions in order to solve simple problems. Simplicity comes later. The hunt is now. All that is simple will succeed me. I want warm, rich, red blood. The heady, scarlet stink of existence - it smells like wet rust, and radiates with the living heat of speculation and debate. MORE BLOOD! More sacrifice! More dance, more drum! My own blood, sacrifice, dance, and drum, of course. More task, more mark, and if we anoint our moments as they pass, more a promise of endless, labyrinthine afterlives - a forever's worth, for us and them and me.

If I were smarter, I'd be able to think my way to beauty and truth. I feel bound to that ambition, as if it were obligation. But why do I pine so intensely for that which is beautiful and honest? How can I believe I might eventually be sensible enough to approach physically and interface with the golden ratio, using my senses - my fingers, my hands, bare skin and nerves - and really feel it? The Cult of Artemis is dead. Artemis, too, is an end pulling taught a cautionary tale. Diana: the anchor, and her mad deer that still roam today, if only to prove the fallacy of ancient wit.

Prettiness, I have oftentimes noticed, contradicts my tendency to be critical and discerning. The liberalness of beauty - or the fair ghost of beauty, respectively - might benefit from a more staunch discernment, for if it were not educated enough to call a side, it would seem somehow less real. Beauty would be less a cause and more an occupation. I'm not here to live and die my way into conversation, as a chore, or to be martyred for martyrdom's sake. I would prefer to speak now and leave tomorrow's talking for tomorrow's talkers.

But we scholars are lethargic. We must all be dizzy from the countless scores of satellites, humming in circles, weaving all these sickly axes, casting invisible, mesh-like nets that make us tense and uncouth, about the outer limits of our charmed lives. So lethargic, so sick and dizzy. We tend to bore our mentors into submission. The satellites, though: they mentor us. They guide us off / We think they're stars.

But even the most sophisticated satellite won't light your homeward trek. There is no home, or there is hardly a home. Besides, satellites only lead back to more satellites, and so on. It all comes full circle, but the cycle is made of cheap metal and boasts it's clever automation cheerlessly and without passion or intent.

I vaguely recall a time, way back when - before the moon was cast in titanium alloy, iron pyrite, fool's gold - when we used to build step-pyramids to the living sky.

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