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I was thinking today what it would be like to record all of your thoughts. What kind of a madness would that be. I bet the ones that I never think to write down would end up being the most instructive.

Probably not though.
((Relatedly: What does one think when one thinks a question))

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Deaf Burkes and Blinded Bendigoes

Alright, alright, you scoundrelous layabouts. The time she has come for all of us to re-acquaint ourselves. Exchange your howdya-does and be quick about it. We start presently.

The antarctic seas

What misery clings to the underside of you like a barnacle? Oh, very little. Very, very little, friend.
Unforgiven, the long lands Your face is like a hamburger joint, the tables are greasy and the company grim. Your face is like a book with leaves pressed into it, the history of rooted things dying when they try to mobilize. Your face, a rag for sopping up ink. Your eyes are like your face, dim and black and filled with empty times. Alright, your face, enough of it then. Instead, a song for you:
Delete! delete!
Til life's replete,
With all them things what held you up 
and kept you down,
An empty cup, a smiling frown,
starting points and wreck the joints
and all ways and wises in between, 
my loves.

Oh yes my loves, the multiple perfect one of you. World wearied bones don't all fossilize or liquefy. Sometimes they subside in the shade and revivify just at the wrong times. Ah, friends, dear friends! The sun she shines loud these clean days we've got, the last ones we've got together likely as not. Yes, friends, we find ourselves burnt and barren together huddled up against the shade, cowering from the light, scurrying and bumping into each other frantic and smiling. The new kinds of terror we invent as games, pleasant and heart-palpitating. Only the largesse of the largest do we really love. All small things we smile at as at a situation comedy. Only the massive and horrifying can wend their way into our hole filled hearts. And those, too, have their small things, and those too we hate. You bastards. Invisible invincible thing of you.

"My life as a face"

Its wings so wide

There are two kinds of things: the kinds that are things and the kinds that aren't things. There are two kinds of kinds, the kinds that apply to things, and the kinds that don't. All the ink spilt, and so little of it cried over. (The tragedy of the tragedians, yes). Gilt like the edges of a bloodless sword, ceremonialized and sharp between the fabric. Why do you condescend? Why do you deign? "As I live and breathe" (All your dandelion-crowned guises fool me not, you shift from foot to foot same-wise every day I've seen yet). Alright alright. Today, just now, I wrote a clump-like string of things about historical analysis, but, woe unto me, I clicked refresh on the browser window before I had updated my scratch pad, and all was lost to the white ocean of the blank page. In the mean time, new thoughts.
the crash of a wave against your horrible face gladdens the heart it does

In the main, though, new thoughts

Title: The Erlanger Programm and Historical Analysis

Alright then, alright, settle. So. Felix Klein. Yes, Felix Klein; he was a German mathematician (1849-1925) who worked at a few universities throughout his career, notably Erlangen and Gottingen. During his tenure in the latter institution he, along with David Hilbert, formed probably the best collection of mathematical researchers since Plato's Academy, and doubtless they trumped that, too. In his tenure at the former institution, during the early 1870s, Klein formulated what has come to be known as his 'Erlanger Programm'.

At the time, after the 1868 publication of Bernhard Riemann's radically general approach to geometry (in his Habilitationsrede, first delivered in 1854, entitled 'On the hypotheses which underlie geometry') there emerged a whole slew of new geometries and old ones reconsidered: projective, hyperbolic, elliptic, affine, metric, non-metric, etc. etc.

Klein, along with his Norwegian friend Sophus Lie, was interested in classifying these different geometries according to a single scheme. He turned to the also-burgeoning field of group theory and developed his famous Programm.

The basic idea of Klein's work is that each of these geometries can be characterized by a group of transformations, and that the appropriate transformation groups within which the basic concepts of the appropriate geometry remained invariant. Now, this also required shoring up the rather dim conception that individual geometries possessed their own batch of basic concepts. Thus, affine geometry, for instance, is the geometry which is concerned with collinearity (i.e., points lying on the same line); thus the affine group of transformations is that group under which relations of collinearity remain invariant.

For each distinct geometry there are related transformation groups derived from a specific set of basic concepts.

That's the basic idea of the Erlanger Programm and it was rather wildly successful. Essentially, Klein's work provided a general language (that of group theory) within which we can discuss the relationships amongst distinct geometries. Prior to Klein's work confusion reigned as to these relationships. (Though Klein's work could not encompass all aspects of the geometries allowed by Riemann's work, it was later generalized by a number of French geometers working under the pseudonym 'Nicolas Bourbaki', Cartan, in particular, worked to generalize Klein's work).

I liked Klein's ideas the first time I found out about them (which was, somewhat oddly, through Tarski's attempt to characterize logic in semi-Kleinian terms, as that subject which deals with the concepts/relations which remain invariant under the most general group of transformations, namely the group of all possible permutations of a given domain). And, more recently, I've been writing about Klein again for some other reasons, particularly the so-called Beltrami-Klein model of hyperbolic geometry.

So, with all that floating up around my gills, I started to think about applying Klein's idea to the field of history. I only started to think that after my earlier musings on historical analysis were inexorably lost. Anyway, my thought was something like this.

Wait. A bit more elsewhere first alright okay.

So, my love, we talk history talk together, we talk about things and non-things and all things in between in the great domain of God's good work. Yes. So, my love, you thought I should write something up about the idea of their being differing equally acceptable 'levels' of historical analysis and you wondered whether someone mightn't have gotten there already. I thought about Foucault when you said that, and so I looked into the Archaeology of Knowledge again and, lo, there was hinted at something of what we wanted.

Therein Foucault starts out by contrasting his archaeological approach with something I don't know how you would call it exactly, something glacial. My inkling is that he is differentiating himself from the Annales school (people like Fernand Braudel, in particular); historians who take the long lean line of things and write the drift of thousands of years, collecting and clumping everything into a vast sweeping, unchanging edifice, all of it with a terrible inevitable weight like Katamari Damacy stretched to infinity.

Foucault's view, by contrast, takes up the system of gaps and fissures and rarities and backsliding against these trends, all the little wigglings and silences and subtle things that can be clumped together or segmented or any other sort of thing between. A bad description of both projects, yes, but here we are.

Anyway, what interested me in Foucault's brief contrast was his lack of polemic: he didn't dismiss the Annales approach (rightly, of course, it is rather an interesting and fruitful one). Then I thought about how Foucault often seems to characterize his work, when he focusses on methodology, by the concepts which guide it, often you will see lists of such concepts, long lists, very French this listing.

Mightn't we then produce a sort of Erlangen program for history as well? Take some set of historical approaches: Foucault's, Braudel's, Spengler's, cultural history, Marxist history, etc, etc. We isolate (insofar as this is possible) their guiding concepts, and then we discuss the fields of events which remain when those concepts are treated as invariants. We might then derive a clearer conception of how these differing historical approaches are (or can be) related to each other. The problem, again, though, is how to characterize the stratifying process of applying the Erlangen approach to history, how, that is, to characterize our typologizing amongst the various historical approaches themselves because it, too, is historical.

Of course this might lead us to a higher level of generality within which we discuss different possible forms of stratification amongst the typology of historical approaches, and then different stratifications of those stratifications, etc. ad infinitum. Within mathematics this process is pushed rather far, until, perhaps, one reaches the vast generality of category theory, which is so pared down it is hard to see how we can pass beyond it without lapsing into inarticulate grunts of "this. this. this." (A bit far there, a bit far, rein it in, keep it on the same level brother, all on the same level, very very cool.)

Alright. So. In history we needn't worry about these problems, those are perhaps for the philosophy of history or for the methodology underwriting our particular approaches to historiography. The idea was a passing one and I thought interesting, it might prove helpful to have a clearer picture of the relationships between the various levels of analysis at which our work operates, even if this clarity is rather contingent upon our selection of just these basic concepts and just this mode of stratification. (And, our biographers can discuss the historical forces which hemmed in our choices and limited us to just those and just these, yes yes).

All of that too my friends.


Still being drawn to you

the gravity of you
pulling all the light I aim to create to your surface
into a point
and everything filiates infinitely from that point 
is always also drawn back into it 
and remains always within it
so that at every instant there is only the tension of it
and the tension of you
crushing history
into the density of lightlessness
and brilliant despair

The thought of whiteness

With all them forever's on the horizon you'dve thought we had something to talk about. (And we did, true, but it wasn't much other than the horizon neither).

All the gin in the world isn't gonna put out this fire, friend.
I'm not your friend, none of that neither.

What sort of perfections are we hiding in this attic, hidden away from the world silently spinning yarns to each other with our queer signed language, our strange finger motions, linked and counter-linked.

A few times in your life the distinction between etymology and philosophy will fail you, and you will flounder about thrashing and grasping for the thin strands of word history nearest you, mistaking them for firm foundations. And once you scrabble back up out of the pit you realize the cave you've found yourself in is vast, lonesome, and echoless because you've emptied out all the words. Sitting down, you set a small fire and begin anew. O such a friend as this.

...only arises from the circumstances

"We deal in lead, friend"

Yes, yes. But what occupies your time, though?

You, you do, my love. "...the living member that makes the living insult..."

I think it is a bit of a shame how far apart the humanities and mathematics have drifted. Mathematics, chiefly, but the other sciences, too. Specialization, yes, a problem. But I think the careerism at the heart of Western university culture has just as much to do with the problem. (The difficulties of long research without the promise of publishable results are not much valued or noted, no).

strange the differences
old words for new worlds yes

Femto-clamps, yotta-cycles.

"Did Pa used to kill folks?" All this thinking and no results. I've been watching a lot of movies lately.

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Saint Helena

Saint Helena, that fair far-flung isolato, strung mid-way between everything "The word "viscosity" derives from the Latin word "viscum" for mistletoe. A viscous glue was made from mistletoe berries and used for lime-twigs to catch birds." The Glanton gang, the Gulag, the Greenland whale.

And what is science today?

"On the other hand, each of us scientists knows that what one has worked through will be out of date in ten, twenty, or fifty years. That is the fate of science; indeed, it is the true meaning of scientific work, to which it is subjected and devoted in a sense specifically different from all the other elements of culture, where the same thing is generally true. Every scientific 'fulfilment' means new 'questions,' it asks to be 'surpassed' and made obsolete. Anyone who wishes to devote himself to science must come to terms with this fact. Scientific works can certainly remain important for a long time as 'things of pleasure,' on account of their artistic quality or as means of training work. To be overtaken in science is, however - let me repeat - not only the fate of every one of us, but also our common goal. We cannot work without hoping that others will get further than we do. Such progress is in principle infinite, and here we come to the problem of the meaning of science. For it is simply not self-evident that something which is subject to such a law is in itself meaningful and rational. Why should one do something which in reality never comes to an end and never can? One does it above all for purely practical or, in the broader meaning of the word, technical ends, in order to be able to direct our practical activities to the expectations which scientific experience suggest to us. That is all well and good, but that means something only to the practical man. But what is the personal attitude of the man of science to his vocation, if indeed he is in search of such an attitude at all? He maintains that he is engaged in 'science for science's sake' and not merely in order that others may achieve commercial or technical successes or be able to feed clothe, light, or govern themselves better. But what significance does he believe himself to accomplish with these creations which are always destined for obsolescence? Why does he allow himself to be tied to this specialized, endless enterprise?" (Max Weber, "Science as a vocation").

Fuck you, accolades!

So. I was reading about the Fields Medal.

...the dimensions are curled up into each other, so that macro sized bodies like us 'cycle' through them a ridiculous number of times whenever we move but that because they are so small, these dimensions, they don't become apparent at normal (even quantum) scales...

((It's funny how we end up relying on the same kind of metaphors that Leibniz and Pythagoras offered as ways of understanding the world. Things like harmony and vibration.))

(I've been thinking about the relationship between physics and mathematics lately. It is really weird and there are a lot of crazy things that I don't really think can be explained.

Why, for instance, have results from group theory which seemingly have nothing at all to do with the physical world, at least as it is narrowly normally conceived, why have these results led directly to actual discoveries about the real world? It's as if a sequence of chess moves could be applied to the real world so that it told you how to build a truck.

But the whole reason I wanted to write about the Fields Medal was because of this crazy fucking Russian guy who won it named Grigori Perelman. He won it for proving (at least to the rough satisfaction of the mathematical world) a famous problem called the Poincare Conjecture. There's an accent over the e in Poincare but I'm not putting it in, it is tedious, and anyone who would object will read it Poin car-ay anyway.

If you don't know who Henri Poincare is, he is also an interesting figure. Both for mathematics and for philosophy.

He was one of the last guys (maybe David Hilbert was another one) that you could honestly say was a master of the entirety of mathematics. He also had some really sharp opinions about the nature of mathematics, logic, and science.

So the Poincare conjecture is a conjecture in topology, which Poincare helped developed in its early stages. Topology, roughly put, is a branch of mathematics that studies stuff like the properties of lumps or blobs that you mold. That's a terrible way to put it. In more technical terms it studies the properties of spaces under continuous transformations.

So, for instance, there is a branch of topology concerned with 'knots'. Knots in the ordinary sense, yes, but considered topologically. In knot theory you identify two knots as members of the same class (or, better, you identify them as the same knot) if they can be transformed into each other without cutting the rope. Roughly, that's what a continuous transformation is, some transformation that doesn't have any cutting involved. There are obviously technical definitions that are much better.

Anyway. So the Poincare conjecture basically asks whether every 3 dimensional space of a particular kind is homeomorphic with the 3 dimensional sphere. (Homeomorphic just means that the two different spaces (the sphere and the other kind of 3-manifold) can be turned into each other via continuous transformations).

The conjecture was generalized for spaces of other dimensions as well.

Anyway it sounds like a relatively simple problem, but it isn't at all, particularly in its generalized form. It's one of Hilbert's 23 problems and also one of the so-called 'Millennium Problems'. Hilbert's are notoriously recalcitrant mathematical problems presented in a lecture in 1900. The millenium problems are a similar collection; if you solve one of these problems to the satisfaction of the committee, you are awarded one million clams. None of the other problems has yet been solved, but this crazy Russian guy Perelman solved the generalized Poincare conjecture by proving it in the affirmative.

That's all the lead up. The cool thing is what he did when everyone tried to heap all these accolades and awards on him. He basically told the whole mathematical world it could keep its shitty prizes and prize money and he didn't want to be considered a representative of that world. Then he left academia and moved in with his mother in Saint Petersburg, where he still lives now pretty much.

So then they tried to give him the Fields Medal and he said no, and they tried to give him a number of other prizes and he declined them all.

His reasoning I can understand. Basically he is really disappointed and disgusted with the ethical standards of the mathematical world and doesn't want to encourage their continuance or give that world his tacit acceptance by allowing its honours to be heaped upon him.

That's a remarkable thing in our age. In any age, really, more remarkable because this age is the one in which I have occurred.

His main complaint is the lack of recognition of the collective effort which goes into mathematical production, and that the entire system of journals, societies, conferences, and so on, is actively designed to thwart that kind of recognition.

He seems like a very interesting guy.

It's kinda funny that he lives so close to the Hermitage.

Moral of the story: if you don't like the game, tell it to fuck off and don't take its money.

Further moral: You end up living near the Hermitage in your mother's basement when you do this.

Perelman, a Luther of shapes.

you feel what it might be like if you had this fundamental sense of dignity and the only choice you have to retain it is an impossible choice and you still make it and that's beautiful.

And you're beautiful.

There's a disastrous kind of beauty in cowardice too, though. 
(Just not always.)

Votive candles

Actually, I haven't been thinking about politics. 

I've never voted in any kind of election. I don't know if that is really a sign of apathy on my part or not. I mean, I am relatively apathetic when it comes to current Canadian politics. How could one not be.

Remember that 'sponsorship scandal' in Canadian politics? I suppose for that one being non-apathetic would mean when it came time to vote, you would have to decide whether that scandal meant that you should not vote for the Liberals, or like, whether it should affect your vote at all in any way. The vote is some final arbiter of your stance on all the conjunctions of these weird little political events that make up the scene.

But like, there is a whole underpinning of political culture beneath the parties and junk that doesn't change based on voting patterns or whoever is in power. And that's the only thing I'd care about changing. But to change that you need a shit load of time (like decades, centuries, or violence) for votes to work things through by always voting out the 'bad elements'. And even that is no real guarantee that things will change. You can use your vote to shape history but what a vote means in each election and how it changes things and which things it changes is not a constant and there is no way to measure how things will have turned out until much, much later. So you have to get involved in a thing you loathe and dedicate your life to it, and likely fail then, too. Methinks flight is called for.

Most people, myself included, are petty and terrible and small and have idiotic opinions about almost everything except maybe some tiny little sliver of the world that they can see clearly and care about.

The idea of democracy or representative government or whatever is that it takes all these various opinions and creates some kind of mean that is equally violent (or unfair or whatever, I can't think of a better word) to all of the opinions that are represented.

If you don't share the goal of a process, and also think that the methods for achieving that goal fail to live up to a standard which you actually do hold, then what is to recommend the whole system? To my mind very little, other than a sense of realpolitik. And if we're being realistic, then of course we'll realize that the vote of one man isn't going to do anything at all.

soft shell crab

He dreamed of falling to his death with a smile on his face every morning in the half light. He never closed the blinds any more, the 3 storey drop limited sight lines and the curiosity of the women's shelter across the street was mainly caught up in cigarette smoke and plastic chairs. The snow made intestinal noises when it melted, and he could hear them from his weightless fantasies, dusting against the lids of his ears and easing him out of the uncomfortable sleep that had just recently befallen him. Another day in life's warm embrace, he thought to himself as he made the five foot trek from his coffin-like bed to his coffin-like desk. Small things, small things, think about the small things.

He drank only water and tea, subsisted on a diet of badly chosen produce and eggs. Spent his days wasting away in conversation and hearsay, looking at images of idiotic little things on the internet, video games and meaningless math problems. A vague sense that I'm wasting some great well of potential that might benefit something, even myself, but I don't sincerely believe it. I'd like to fly a plane, but I won't. I'd like to have someone else's life back, but I won't either. Instead bitter little crab strokes scribbled against the black backdrop of a missile meant for myself. Alright, I give in.

The end.

I'm not saying that I have some kind of air tight case for not voting, just that to me it seems equally well justified to do it or not to do it. It's basically a whim.

I can whistle into the wind or not.

The meaning of a vote is so far beyond your control that not voting or voting can, from your point of view at least or at the time of casting the ballot, mean pretty much the same thing. Of course history decides what the vote will mean (or the various things that it will mean). To me voting in a serious way is like being committed to one interpretation of the future for no discernible reason.

You can only really vote in a meaningless way.

I think more people should exempt themselves from the voting process if they have a realistic view of the intelligence of their own political views. I realize mine are completely self-absorbed and incoherent, and so as a corollary, I would like to reduce the shittiness of the 'average' opinion by not including myself in the collective pool of stupidity.

I just right now decided that the best preparation for this world is:

Recuse yourself. 


Listen, fuckface.

She asked me if it was too constraining to always have to paint the same graffiti name letters. And I said that nah it was cool to have a constraint. (Actually, there are a trillion more constraints than that, but that's a cool and fun one to have to put up with).

So I was thinking about it after and a lot of other things are like that. And by "like that" I mean, are made better by things we consider 'constraints'.

The scarcity of delicious meals makes them better, even. (I don't know if that's the same thought. It probably is if scarcity is a constraint. Which it is. So it is. There we have it).

The 'absolute freedom' of whatever phony artists is such a stupid demand to begin with. First, any medium whatsoever is a constraint. Physical or mental, that goes for both. Really in demanding art or anything else free of constraints, all you are demanding is nothingness.

Ancients, Medievals, Heidegger all had it right when they thought of the value and meaning of human life (life more generally, I guess) as something determined in large part by death. Actually, fuck the 'in large part' part. Life is only meaningful because of mortality.

Houellebecq is awesome on that sentiment. He points out how when life spans lengthen and certain drives (for him sex drives, usually) are weakened, the production of art or jokes or things like that kinda just ceases and is replaced by non-social contemplation. The frenetic activity of life is linked to our knowledge (and our bodies' knowledge) that it won't be around forever, or even for long.

That's why the religions of the book are not basically creative or artistic. They hanker too much for the long vista of immortality that pushes all struggle and difficulty to the side in favour of a dull hum in the distance.

Life as we live it is like the vibration of a bell that eventually shatters itself. Religion, by contrast, is a white cloth fluttering against a white cloth, quietly and forever.

And God as an absolutely unfettered Creator, too, is, I guess, just a bad view. If God had no constraints it's not really a creation. I guess that's why the smart ones (Leibniz, e.g.) take logic to be a constraint, so we can still have some kind of demiurgic understanding even of that Great Fellow.

(When I read the word 'demiurge' I always picture a giant elongated shovel with no handle flying toward the earth at a fantastic speed. That's probably what it was like anyway, though).

If we lived longer, we could see farther, of course. But if we weren't short-sighted I'd think that the universe would be better justified in just blotting us out right now. The fact that we can't see far enough to know what we are doing is what makes us great. Or, rather, it is what allows us to make great things (great thoughts, great things, great places, great times).

There's probably a lot of really 'deep' things to be said about time as a constraint but they've all been said before and better.

I was also thinking today of making a drawing or a building, I guess, that looked the same from the side as it did from above, but that was not a regular shape like a cube or a triangular prism or whatever you want.

I tried drawing one like that in my book and came to the conclusion that it would require a really peculiar arrangement of hills.

Then I was wondering how you would go about figuring out exactly how to make that kind of a building or drawing. You could probably do it mathematically, or at least you could show what you would have to do in order to do it by way of mathematics.

First Lie.

I knew you a few times
smart, soft, supple
a little delicate fold of clothing
wrapped loose around your face
to smile under when you were shy

What did I know, though?
what really was it
A few things, a few times
a couple small rotations of light
angling around you and circling to me
some shared vibrations
little instants of dust trickling against my skin
or your skin, or between skins in the air

Not much more than that, then
Much less, even
than that.

What I mean is that there is probably some mathematical way to describe a class of three dimensional figures which have at least two distinct 2-dimensional representations 'projected' from points that lie upon lines which are 90 degrees relative to each other which are isomorphic to each other. Actually, to produce a picture based on these constraints, you'd have to have more than just isomorphism, they would have to have some elements which were actually identical. (Because you can have two structures composed of, e.g., points on the one hand and lines on the other hand which are isomorphic though if you looked at them they wouldn't look remotely similar. In other words: you need an isomorphic thing which also LOOKS the same, and I'm sure you could describe looking the same in terms of projective constraints on 2 dimensional figures in 3 dimensional space bla bla bla). Anyway.

If you could describe that 'abstract structure' required then you would have the constraints you originally wanted, and could begin to generate the appropriate images relative to those constraints. You probably could not draw those constraints themselves though. Although, I guess, you could have a picture of what they meant and that picture might represent a morphism between your thoughts and whatever it is that that 'structure' itself is.

But who knows, and you couldn't SHOW that, really.

Who knows what the structure of a thought is?

(Show of hands).

These people.

I swear.


I wonder if the relative novelty of dating in China has a different effect on the relationship between money and attraction there than it does here. Regardless of dating, there is probably a weird history of the meaning of economics in China that is different but somewhat similar to ours.

Second Lie.

No but really
what I knew was
bigger and smaller than that
in all the ways that you know
so there's no point in
talking or touching
or living lives

The separate things
your smile and quizzical little eyebrows
happy and confusing in their novelties
becoming familiar
all of those nice histories
we'd end up weaving

It's alright to pass that by
because the minutes and moments
already had
are enough
are more than I could expect
to have deserved
from one like you

Write a book about the small things so the big things seem small and you can squeeze them into the palm of your hand painful. I'm trying to make my life smaller because I can't manage the days and the nights rolled up in heaps on the horizon hoping for me to get the one thing I think I need. I need to make my sentences longer without commas so that no one can stop me from talking and nothing will end until it's supposed to and it's not supposed to end either alright. The dramatic things, the undramatic things, the little twists of phrase you could replace with little fingerprinted pressures against the nape of the neck, delicate and soft or rough and crude. A big block of words to block the meat-brain governing the selfish things I want for my selfish self. Poems and things are diversions and things to not say what you mean and things because that's a troubling little thing today and tomorrow and yawning lately years from now too alright okay. Okay okay okay alright already. Go to sleep get some rest, you're not making sense get some rest sleep. (Alright). A nice little book though

Yes, you're a bridge to something too, and your past is the history of small things becoming other small things and twining up into a thread that you want to rip apart but which guides the path you're on now. This has all happened again a trillion times and everything you wanted to have happened will all happen again a trillion times, and everything you properly avoided and everything in between. All the accidents and insanities and painfuls and beautifuls and perfects, and all the yous that there were and all the mes that there couldn't be. All that horrible mixture that is life and being alive and living through time all of that happens forever and infinitely, everything thick and thin with everything else. All the possibilities built up in you, the small thoughts that kept you awake a few minutes too long one night, the deaths, the murders, the saliva built up at the corner of your mouth inexplicably from laughter, everything about you is forever.

Life is fate and we love just the same in the face of it.

Your face is like a trial
Juried up, losing
Carted away for 400 years
yes yes

a sea-storm
teeth clenched
you're beautiful

Just say 'I love you' to the people you love and let true things be for a change without varying their elements and warping them into mild pleasantries that roll off their shoulders like dead skin past being touched. Just fucking say yes and learn something, just one fucking thing say yes yes yes just fucking do it once.

An experiment in diverting things then.