We Are Like Snails, Each Stuck To

If A Man Who Can’t Count Finds A Four Leaf Clover, Is He Lucky?

The Night Stared Me In The Face, Amorphous, Blind, Infinite, Without Frontiers. Not A Single Start Relieved The Darkness Behind The Glass.

Cripple God, Who Always Desires More Than He's Able To Have, And Doesn't Always Realize This To Begin With. Who Has Built Clocks, But Not The Time That They Measure. Has Built Systems Or Mechanisms That Serve Particular Purposes, But They Too Have Outgrown These Purposes And Betrayed Them. And Has Created An Infinity That, From Being The Measure Of The Power He Was Supposed To Have, Turned Into The Measure Of His Boundless Failure.

The Age-old Faith Of Lovers And Poets In The Power Of Love, Stronger Than Death, That Finis Vitae Sed Non Amoris, Is A Lie, Useless And Not Even Funny.

In Riemann, Hilbert Or In Banach Space Let Superscripts And Subscripts Go Their Ways. Our Symptotes No Longer Out Of Phase, We Shall Encounter, Counting, Face To Face.