I am your scholar.
A pious monk, candle-lit and focused, night after night.
Pouring over your language with no knowlege of the sun or its whereabouts.
I go blind trying to understand you.
But there is a faith, deeply rooted and burning hot, and I no longer need eyesight.
I am your prophet.
The only one to ever see that flash of truth.
The split second when everything in my universe lined up and you were the fixed point.
And around you I plot the stars.
I am your genius.
I know you, and you give me answers.
Riddles wane in my presence, theorems crumble while mathematicians weep for the beauty.
And I smirk at the simplicity of it all.