Every Weirdo In The World Is On

Murphy's Law, That Brash Proletarian Restatement Of Godel's Theorem.

It All Comes Down, As It Must, To The Desires Of Individual Men. Oh, And Women Too Of Course, Bless Their Empty Little Heads.

A Number Of Frail Girls... Prisoners In The Top Room Of A Circular Tower, Embroidering A Kind Of Tapestry Which Spilled Out The Slit Windows And Into A Void, Seeking Hopelessly To Fill The Void: For All The Other Buildings And Creatures, All The Waves, Ships And Forests Of The Earth Were Contained In This Tapestry, And The Tapestry Was The World.

But A Few Choosing To Venture Deeper Into The Painful Corridors Of Their Affliction, Found After A While That They Could Now Grind And Polish Ever More Exotic Surfaces, Hyperboloidial And Even Stranger, Eventually Including What We Must Term ‘imaginary’ Shapes (which Some Preferred To Term Invisible).

Some Of Us Are Afraid Of Dying; Others Of Human Loneliness. Profane Was Afraid Of Land Or Seascapes Like This, Where Nothing Else Lived But Himself.