These lines are straight, cut into the fabric of time, the mass of the liquidated mind, measured and steely faced. But thought, irrational in void and memory— psychic optometry that refuses the linear strain of space in the face of a world delegated by man— oh thought is broken circles, four dimensional fabrics bubbling softly like a thick stew, crisping like flowering smiles unfurling a thousand and a thousand buds, petals singed by the searing violet oil swirled around and around in the mental pan of nourishment. Theories of relativity they are drawn in arcing curves that crest like jagged mountains thrust tectonically into sharp upward slopes, predicting percolating sacrilege in primary hues, forgotten is the blending; yet no visual circumstance can relay the romance of obscurity; thought can never be expressed vertically, horizontally, the stressed, mummified yawns of gridded sanctimony galloping through tracks of woven rigidity. Even gurgling laughter breaks, trips, and at last ceases to be: and there the birth of submergence lingers. But in the infinite reflection of reality all Line is a mobius.
