Years
from now
the square root
of things won’t matter.
And the tomorrows of back
then won’t be multiplied. From
now on the strike of the sun has been
doubled. We were never ready for this. Who
would have guessed that our minds would crumble
under such great force that your mother would lean over
you wiping the salt drops from your forehead. Muttering what
a shame it is that a great mathematics man would go under like this.
And continuously you look to the ceiling as if lying under the stars could
cure you. You with your plague. You the math murder under the stars as so many
others like you were. Praying to Galileo or Eisenstein that you could, can find an answer to the ever-ending meaning of life.