That little tale about little Dennis, it’s a memory from my childhood. I couldn’t think of an original thing if I had all the brains of The Colossus of Rhodes. My dowry is quite small as my breasts are inverted. With my little piano, I was absolutely dazzled by just sounding the faintest hint like one of those Great Masters of Western Theory. Not that I haven’t reach prisms and axioms with my pen from time to time as well, it was simply too faint to be called original. The idea of spelling out something independent isn’t in me. I realized this breath of cherubs that I spoke of as golden, then found it could be reduced to the most basic mathematics, the mathematics of me, an equal shape broken it to smaller equal shapes. Enough said of that. I’ll think even more deductively.
It is too bad that Socrates was right; deductions are the only way to find the truth of meanings. It is a sad fact. It is funny, how I realize this know, it could just as easily be baby’s doll, with slobber and bacteria unending.
In the Cold of these Mountains and their unending peaks is truth. The pines speak to me, harshly of the miner and the lumberjack, the days of the roaring bears protecting their cubs, making pulp of matters interfering. As an owl seeking pray we go to what ills us in the first place. The rocks drifted apart from having never been climbed correctly, but always this way or that. Always under or over, and all have experience both; so we must make a home with both, until there is neither.