I See A Poem As A Multi-coloured

Come, Every Frustum Longs To Be A Cone, And Every Vector Dreams Of Matrices. Hark To The Gentle Gradient Of The Breeze: It Whispers Of A More Ergodic Zone.

Art Gives Man A Reminder That He Is Not Just A Consumer But A Creator As Well. It Awakens In Him The Urge To Struggle And Perform Great Deeds; It Fills Him With The Craving To Pass On The Promethean Fire To Generations To Come.

Practically All Sf Is Trash.

I Have To Admit That He Was Not Bad At Combinatorial Analysis - A Branch, However, That Even Then I Considered To Be Dried Up.

Cancel Me Not - For What Then Shall Remain? Abscissas, Some Mantissas, Modules, Modes, A Root Or Two, A Torus And A Node: The Inverse Of My Verse, A Null Domain.