“And yet at that time, when the sweet savor of your ointment was so fragrant, I did not run after you,” sang the Song of Soloman;
to which Augustine of Hippo, immediately chimed in, “Therefore, I wept more bitterly as I listened to your hymns, having so long panted after you. And now at length I could breathe as much as the space allows in this our straw house.”
The earth reversed the direction of her rotation about the axis.
The world inverted.
A hunched over, limping man walks a sandy path, alone, with a heavy burden.
Something of a phenomenon, alive amongst a barren plane.
A tesseract is a cube eating itself endlessly.
The curves of her moebius strip.
Her figure eights, accompanied by her steed’s flying-lead changes, enables both to fly off on another tangent.
“This is the fruit of my confessions,” says Parçigal.
“So says you,” Æ reply.
“No. I quote.”