… yes. Linearly. Carefully. One by one. The stone steps of a cathedral, the clear sound of heels, candles and distant bell, beckoning from above.
I see–but no, too poignant already. I observe. Hide behind the objective, the convoluted clauses, the waves of proper nouns a threatening wall. What they say is true: the vast expanse of universe, the uncharted grounds for discovery, the oceans, the jungles, the engines humming in the galactic void–but slowly. Look at the arrows again, the boxes, the lines, the curly little symbols denoting and, or, not.
Sin is committed perpetually. Falsity is performed before the eyes of God. Images are produced–subjectivity presupposed at every turn–the shadow projected, the chains rattled, the doors of the theatre opened just enough, and tempted am I.
Truth, then: the whole truth, nothing but the truth. I see the steps, the steps of Penrose, so I stray from my ordained path. I draw wolves and sheeps from the positions of celestial bodies, and throw them in the world’s flame. I hide behind the crashing waves, the castle without gates, the and-ing or’s and not. I am a thinking thing, but not.