So this is the score so far: Knob Creek neat, purple haze, Makers Mark rocks, and a longitudinal plan to topple algebra.

It's amazing how things fit together at points like this, how the critical theory one learned, the Wittgensteinian skepticism, the emjambing, and the seven types of ambiguity (even if this need not be read), altogether form a new-critical uncapitalized melange, better than the spice, dune, arrakis, dessert planet. As mazur says, taniyama provides a bridge between two worlds, and these worlds are on different planets. There is a sense, a drunk sense, imbibed in the right way, libated and liberated, associative in a way that makes me recall my old work, the verse without a net, or even a racket, the telescoping series of events and perspectives which add up to more than some of the parts, puns past running-on, a needless sense, the Original Sinn.

I miss wifey in times like this.