Si quicquam mutis gratum acceptumve sepulcris
accidere a nostro, Calve, dolore potest,
quo desiderio veteres renovamus amores
atque olim missas flemus amicitias,
certe non tanto mors immatura dolori est
Quintiliae, quantum gaudet amore tuo.
- Catullus #96
It is with some regret that I point to the stars, perchance obscured by what now seems like a relentless snow, and declare them to be mine. It is with further regret that I accept my own ephemerality, although I find this topic to generally evoke the indifference of strangers. It is with even further regret that I find myself unable to characterize their indifference as "depraved," and thus I fail to outwit them at their own games.
As the number of near-identical parts of a system approaches infinity, the number of possible divergent outcomes of the system approaches one. This is the cause of some frustration, first in its implications for humanity and second in humanity's inability to understand those implications. Of course, when we apply basic laws of thermodynamics, it becomes clearly apparent that the continual replication of humanity can only result in massive explosions. At this point in my thought, I become quickly aware of the fact that my thoughts have little basis in fact, nor falsifiability, nor the ability to retain the interest of anybody who bothers to explore them.
We generally regard the wind flowing past you during a bicycle ride as a positive sensation. This is not always true. Often we find winter to be a strong deterrent to executing any sort of action. The wind bites at your ears until your face is finally struck by the frost, preparing itself for the onslaught of winter. With this comes the end of your fertility, as the mind convalesces in some terrible stagnancy.
The vagrancies of our psychology are an endless source of irritation. I awoke with a start today to discover that my window had flown open mid-night, and proceeded to wrap myself in my covers and stare angrily at the sky, which has decided to turn itself into some mess of paper shreds. They abandon their young as they come to the screen, some terrible rite of passage. The mothers weep and pull out their hair as they witness their young melting into my carpet.
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