Unbeknownst to many, I have in my possession a cube of indeterminate origin, density, and perseverance.
While there are several theories as to its composition (the theories seemingly outnumbering the theorists, on some days), I thought that I should use this space to disclose a number of recent revelations I have received regarding said item.
Indeed, what one perceives as “cube” is merely (merely! as if bones were merely suggestions) the three-dimensional ossification of a greater unknown structure the likes of which appear unprecedented and reflect similarly (upon myself, and the establishment (But we’ve already gone over that! Laid a foundational lair, if you will? (I will, but only as a last resort: I respect the sullen silence of the library too much to sap at superficialities)), and most of all - the libations we have come to expect from said reflections).
Let’s not get greedy! Let’s give back a little ground to gravity. In its (cosmologically) recently weakened state it can hardly be blamed for trying something new.
Supposing this trend continues: My cube grows larger every day (and I haven’t measured days in quite some time), it demands attention, demands attrition, demands a furthering of entropy to a degree with which I lack a proper alibi.
And am I to blame?
You say I lack the qualifications to continually query my fellows. My cube is an extension, therefore, of my inadequacies. Or is it a regression of such?
I require something of my cube (it has yet to be determined the limits of the cube’s kindness, if such a word can properly define the specific attitudinal attenuation I am granted (sparsely, but solidly (and on a good day, isn’t solidity really all that matters?)), but my capacity for dimensionality (relatively speaking, of course) has reached an end.
My cube and I will agree to disagree.
I can no longer be held responsible for what is to follow.
Hello! I have updated my store at Society6 for the first time in a long time, today! These drawings are now for sale as little prints. It looks like they are offering free shipping through tomorrow, so that’s pretty good too. Check it out! (There’s a bunch of other older drawings still for sale as prints, also)
It’s said that the struggle to describe a line is an ancient one. It’s said that for a line to describe the path of an object (x) as it traces the orbit of the central psychosomatic solid (y) in the throes of this struggle is an anxious undertaking; and having said that, I would like to reiterate a number of my linear anxieties that may (or may not, we have received no proof, nor given the same) have become detached from their given orbits (or objects (with no objections? then I will proceed, obviously)).
The anxiety of orbit is twofold.
The first fold is, of course, as we are all taught from an early age (many assume this age to be Pleistocene, but I have my suspicions (as should you, I suspect)), lengthwise. A mere distraction from the issues at hand, I’d say. And my hand (as you well know!) has no length, but only width, and I’ve been caught in more than my fair share of cookie jars as evidence. I fold my hand and another appears; so too an orbit folds where no others appear (and all is lost (the loss is permanent but molecular, as the orbital hallway narrows with every crease)). We’ve all been scolded for crying over spills/splits/spites, so there’s no need to unfold old wounds again, but consider this - the consolidation of any object will always spill a line or two in the process (and my process is considerable (though my cleanliness leaves much to be desired)).
To reinstate the fold, regardless of vector, regardless of velocity, is to reveal the second. But firstly, a digression: my second hand redaction defines only default lines. Any ruptures above and beyond the grid are no concern of mine. A corollary to an otherwise ribald series of folds; and what are folds but faults in a pristine plane? Plainly and precisely - an anxious ripple, lengthwise again: you’d recognize my handiwork anywhere, and don’t you dare suggest the contrary.